


Casting Off

by Tairais



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, I forgot to mention-, M/M, Mage Rights, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, So sit down and buckle up, Trespasser Spoilers, We're telling the entire story of my Lavellan because why not, also I guess this can technically count as, and then as a, oh yeah and
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-06-30 13:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15752211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tairais/pseuds/Tairais
Summary: This is the story of one Fen'Falon Lavellan, the Inquisition, a love of family and friendship, and losing and gaining it all in equal measure.It's also the story of Dragon Age: Inquisition as I experienced it through my first playthrough. Why yes, I named my Inquisitor Fen'Falon and proceeded to romance Solas, blissfully unaware.I make fantastic choices.





	1. Prologue: Enter the Unreliable Narrator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storm_of_shadows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_of_shadows/gifts).



> Right! As the summary says, this story is entirely a work of love on my part. I recently finished playing both Inquisition and Trespasser (like 4 years after it came out, good job Tai), and after much screaming, irritation, frustration, grieving, and frantically explaining all those emotions to several people that I probably owe apologies, I decided to write this for four reasons:
> 
> 1) I adore all the Dragon Age games. So much.  
> 2) My dear friend storm_of_shadow introduced me to these games, and encouraged my nonsensical ramblings, hence the gifting. (Hi if you read this Storm o/)  
> 2.5) This is also dedicated to my nerd friends that I ranted to, considering half of you wanted to read this for some reason.  
> 3) I really love Fen'Falon. Fight me.  
> 4) Spite. For obvious reasons. :')
> 
> There will be spoilers, probably some bad characterization, gratuitous suspension of disbelief, coffee stains, and tears. This is entirely a self-indulgent work, and I admit that. If that's gonna be a problem, the back button is conveniently located at the top left of your screen! :D
> 
> That being said, I welcome constructive criticism, would adore comments, and cherish every kudos and bookmark.
> 
> Assuming anyone reads this at all, considering it'll be my first and probably my only work on here ;)
> 
> So sit down, buckle up, and welcome to this trainwreck!
> 
> Edit: Updates will probably end up being sporadic as heck, as I'm just starting college, but I promise not to leave this unfinished, even if Dragon Age 4 comes out before I do :P

Her name hadn't always been Fen’falon, just as her fourth family hadn’t always been gathered from a great many places to replace the three she had lost.

She hadn’t always been Fen’falon Lavellan, just as she hadn’t always been a pariah of her third family from the very start.

She hadn't always been in love, just as she hadn't always been the leader of an Inquisition that called her the Herald of a religion that had destroyed her people.

She hadn't been a great many things for some great time, just as now she could hardly remember being anything else but Inquisitor (Fen’falon) Lavellan.

She hadn't ever told her story in its entirety, just as she had never felt the need to. It was a tragedy in its own right, so long as you were the sort to know a great many secrets of your own. It was something that grew and festered on its own, swallowed up by whoever she was in that present moment.

She'd always remembered the past, just as she'd always tried to restore what parts of it she could hold on to out of a sense of guilt and obligation that hid under her sharp tongue.

Hadn’t, just, not always, hardly, never, despite. She had always thought her story as one of continually casting off an old skin, adapting to circumstance she had never wanted.

Fen’falon’s story should be told whole in order to understand… something not quite tangible. Certainly, to understand the deep-seated grief in ancient eyes and aching teeth, in the seething resentment that crumbled under understanding and a drive to heal, but that is not all, nor is it even the true point of this story.

Perhaps it should simply be told to understand one of Thedas’ greatest heros. It would make sense, no? Whatever there is to be understood, this is the story of one of many souls that have saved the world, gained much, and lost, perhaps, even more. It would be a disrespect not to hear every word, not to every thought from every actor and every technician.

I set the stage for you, my friends and willing audience: Our story starts in 9:05 Dragon, with two of Ferelden’s Dalish clans. I know not when it will end, only that it will, as all things do. Inquisitor Fen’falon Lavellan will pass into darkness the same as all who came before her and all that came after her, and her only memories will be in half-truths handed down throughout the ages, distorted by embellishment and rumor, and the certainty that, without her, none would be alive to speculate.

I intend to speak the truth, and nothing but the truth as she saw it, sees it now, and will see it in the future.

Someone has to tell this story, after all. It may as well be me.


	2. Prologue Part Two: To Weave the Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we remember what the hero can't quite.

Once upon a time, an elven man and woman, both mages, fell in love. Though they were each the Firsts of their clans, and though they should have, by all rights, only have ever seen each other during the first Arlathvhen of their lives, their clans travelled similar paths, and they found their way to each other time and time again.

Their names were Camras and Nayamihe, and they perished in the Fifth Blight.

They spent their frequent meetings together and away from prying eyes. As fortune would have it, they were both solitary creatures by nature, and little was thought of their absences so long as they returned to their clans in a timely manner.

Some few years passed like, and it came to be that the woman was with child. Equally so, it came to be that their love was tested, confined by fear and bound the knowledge that their children would likely be mages, be likely given away to other clans whose traditions were not their own in order to keep all their kind safe. Though they had no way of knowing this for certain, they were afraid.

All creatures in every world know to be wary of a fearful mother, for they are determined, desperate, and fiercely cunning. Just so, a man fully devoted and in love will do anything for those so fortunate as to be seen by that love, to be understood, to be cherished. The two each wove their own ruse, using sympathetic hearts in each of their clans as their romantic co-conspirators. Camras, brave mage he, faked his death at the hands of an ancient temple’s magic. Nayamihe, ever the stoic hunter, knew all the ways of the forest and more, and knew which river would safely carry her away from prying eyes.

Though each of their clans mourned what they had been alone, together they had had a child- two children, no less! The first was named Aishwynn, a sturdy baby whose first grip caused her father a joyous kind of pain. She seldom cried and watched the world with wide eyes, and both of her parents knew she would grow up to be blessed by Andruil, blessed to be a great hunter.

The younger of the two claimed her own name later. She was loud when she cried, soothed only by stories of her peoples’ past and of the winding roads of the Fade. She was a mage to whom the Fade sang in her heart as easily as air moved through her lungs, and she was something her parents didn’t quite know how to raise. For a few years, their love for their children and the knowledge they earned from the Dalish was enough; Fen’falon and Aishwynn grew thick as thieves, babbling and making up games to pass the time.

Soon Aishwynn began to take to the forest, learning from her mother the ways of the hunter. Together, the two of them saw that their family was always warm in the winter months, and that they always had food during the sparser times. They were never hungry as they wandered, and they wasted little of the animals they caught. Aishwynn had no interest in the stories of their people-- Why should she, when the present world was an ever-changing thing, and the past was nothing but forgotten glory?

Fen’falon learned as much from her family as she could in the golden days of her childhood: how to protect herself from demons in her dreams, how to control her connection to the Fade, and the mysteries of all the wonderful things within. Her father dreamed often, and he knew the pathways of the Fade better than most. From her mother, she learned how to listen to the trees when they spoke of disquiet in the forest, what plants could heal, could harm, and what signs spoke of death, water, or life. From her sister, dearest Aishwynn, she learned how to walk silently, how to stand downwind, how to gain the respect of wildlife, and how to use nature as a cloak.

The greatest triumph of her and Aishwynn’s childhood, however, came in the taming of a raven. The raven was as clever a messenger as any shemlen nobleman’s, ferrying messages between the two sisters as one hunted and one studied and mended. In this way, the two of them knew everything that happened to the other, and in this way the raven lived as pampered a life as one could live while constantly moving.

They were a clan of four, Camras and Nayamihe and Aishwynn and Fen’falon. With each morning they rose with the sun, ate, laughed and hunted. With each afternoon, they mended, crafted, and wove. With each evening, they sang, they ate, and they listened as Camras told the stories of who they were and who they would be. For a great many years, it seemed as if this were to be their happy, simple life forever.

As only time can attest, the only constant in life is change. The time came when Fen’falon’s father could teach no more of the Fade, when her mother could speak no more of the trees, and the allure of the unknown called Fen’falon further than the forests her sister knew so well.

She set out to travel further than the reaches of Fereldan that her family called home on her fourteenth birthday, with her father’s staff as a final parting gift. Her travels took her west, along the Storm Coast into Orlais, then northward, skirting along the edges of Nevarra and into the Free Marches. She meandered into quiet pockets of wilderness untouched by all but the most devoted followers of nature’s way, walked with the history of her people in the Emerald Graves and the Exalted Plains, and marveled at the remnants of things neither she nor her father had tales for, as they were ancient even by their standards.

Fen’falon loved this ghost of a world she inhabited, kept company by histories left forgotten, left behind. Though she didn’t have the words or experience to share them or understand them, she saw that they were there, and she knew.

Most of the time, it was enough.

It took an incredible amount of luck, and no small amount of skill, but she remained untroubled by humankind for most of her journey. What her silver-barbed tongue couldn’t talk her way out of, the storm and fire at her fingertips could. She wanted for little in those days.

She had questions always, and in the place of each answer arose several more. This world of hers was ignored by most of society and overtaken by all nature, was breathtaking in its beauty and fascinating in its uncertainty. In many cases, there were no records for the skeletal huts she found in the woods, no frame of reference for the true nature of the sprawling temples that her father told legends of. Her father had told her what he knew of their gods, what he knew of their history, what he knew of the Veil and of Fen’Harel’s trickery. Though her father and mother were fervent in their beliefs, and though Aishwynn believed in none of it, she walked the middle path.

She believed, but she doubted.

Throughout her travel, she’d had the opportunity to watch and listen to people from all walks of life. Though there were those who were good, even they had weaknesses and flaws that could turn ugly in an instance. Those that were considered evil and treacherous often had belief and hope they acted upon, and often there was something broken inside them. True enough, there were those that simply enjoyed a surplus of being kind, just as they were balanced out by those who sought little more than to cause pain for pleasure. Fen’falon saw these things and understood many of their motivations, though it in no way excused the resulting ugliness.

Therefore, she mused as she sat by a fire on the Orlesian border, face unmarked by vallaslin and hidden by a hood, did it not make sense that the gods themselves were as flawed as the beings that worshipped them? After all, they were enough like their people to laugh, to love, and to war -- did it not make sense, then, that they were enough like their people to have their stories twisted for the sake of an ideal?

Surely, she later thought as the fire grew dark and the world grew into slumber, if Fen’Harel was friend to both the Creators and the Forgotten Ones, he himself was something between the two pantheons, and thus, the most like the people that feared him?

Granted, she was sixteen at the time, far from being a theological philosopher. Still, the thoughts stuck like little cobwebs, as thoughts so often do, until they were brushed from her mind by the encounter in which she found her name.

The howling of wolves was a familiar accompaniment to her travels: she often travelled at night to avoid templars and traders on the few roads she chanced. In the early days of her wanderings, she’d done her best to block it out: her parents’ lessons stuck to the forefront of her mind, and she had no desire to be found by Fen’Harel’s chosen beasts.

As time passed with little more than the company of the stars, ruins both ancient and modern, and nighttime wildlife, she found herself rising with their melodies--It was simply another constant in her life that replaced the ones she had given up with her family: The sun will set, the moon will rise, the wolves will howl, and people will believe whatever they want to believe, even as truth stares them in the face.

The howling of wolves was familiar, dear, even. Their cries of pain were not.

A fortnight after Fen’falon crossed the border, well after she normally heard their howling, a sharp yelp split the air, followed by the sound of higher, frantic yipping. Years later, she still wouldn’t be able to describe the piercing pain that raced in time with her heart and footsteps as she leaped over fallen trees and darted across stone to find the source of the sound.

Wycome glittered in the distance with all its civilized fire, and the stars above watched as she picked her way up the side of a rocky outcropping, bare feet heedless of sharp edges and gripping like moss. Three men- hunters, given the bows on their backs; cruel given the knives that glittered the same as the stars- cornered a wolf against the mouth of a small cave. The shrill cries of the pups behind their mother sank tooth and claw into her heart; they were pitiful, desperate things that made her snarl, familiar with the injustice.

Aishwynn had always insisted on visiting any human villages they wandered near while their mother and father set up their latest camp. She wanted to see how they lived, was curious to see if the tales their mother and father had told them were true. Fen’falon, ever eager to heed their parents’ warnings, had only ever agreed out of a desire to keep her sister and only friend safe.

Too many of those encounters had ended with angry shouts about Dalish hunters. Too many of those encounters had ended with scuffles that could have been so much worse. The last of those encounters had nearly ended with an arrow in Aishwynn’s neck-- would have too, said Aishwynn to their horrified parents, had Fen’falon not reacted quicker and summoned a barrier around them both. 

Their visits ended with Fen’falon burning the man alive out of fear and rage at him hurting her family. Aishwynn had dragged her away as his wife and children screamed the sound of broken things discarded by an unfair world. Afterwards, she had promised Aishwynn she would never kill again if she could help it, but she could never take the extra step to reassure her sister that she was horrified by what she had done. 

She wasn’t horrified, no, but she was haunted by them all the same. There were plenty of middle roads she could have taken if she had wished, had she not enjoyed the look of fear in that man’s eyes for daring to think himself more entitled to the world than they were. Oftentimes, when she had to make a choice between her own personal satisfaction and what she knew to be better, that man and his family stood at the point of divergence: To her right, the fires of revenge, and to her left, the fear of losing her own family, her own world.

The widow had screamed for “Markus!”, the children for “Papa!”. Despite the noise, she could only think of Aishwynn’s name. She would have screamed it, had fear and entrancement not frozen her tongue so utterly.

The wolf in the clearing bled from two arrows in her side and a weeping gash across her muzzle. Her teeth snapped and snarled and growled, but the hunters could see how tired she was: her flanks heaved with every movement, and her eyes grew cloudy as blood fell into dirt.

She shifted her weight on her feet and her grip on her staff. The wolf looked over her tormentors’ shoulders and saw a form haloed by moonlight and the shadows of leaves. Yellow eyes met glowing green and saw a friend in the desperate rage within them. The hunters turned to follow the wolf’s gaze and saw a wall of fire and lightning at the hands of something small, gnarled, and lithe.

The screams of those hunters stayed with Fen’falon for the rest of her life, pressed into every utterance of her name. When they were no more but ash and the ghost of fear in the air, she laid down her staff and slowly approached the wolf. The wolf laid down and regarded her with suspicion, caution, and perhaps the faintest bit of hope.

Between her own limited knowledge and the wolf’s distrust towards anything on two legs, it was sunrise before Fen’falon could be certain that she would be well. Dawn slipped orange and blue bruises into the sky as Fen’falon sat back on her feet to admire a job well done, bleeding stopped and wounds mostly healed over. 

The wolf rose to her feet shortly after and met her unflinching stare as if searching for something before she slipped inside her den. Shortly thereafter, the wolf’s pups tumbled their way into the sunlight and over Fen’falon, shocking her into further stillness that went unheeded as they went about climbing and nipping and playing with their brothers and sisters.

In that moment, those wolves were as Elven as she was, playful and unafraid of the smoke that still lingered in the air. Their mother watched with lidded eyes, trusting Fen’falon with her pups as she had begrudgingly trusted her with her life.

In that moment, Fen'falon remembered the tales of Fen’harel her father told in a voice equal parts rage and the grief felt for forgotten, lost things, and for a moment, wondered if she had done something truly foolish. Some small part of her recoiled at what she had done, but that small part drowned under the images of the Emerald Knights and their faithful guardians, whose statues she had seen in her travels through Orlais.

In that moment, Fen’falon realized how lonely she had become, wandering so far from home, and for the first time since leaving home, she allowed herself to weep for the things she had given away in order to search for herself. She buried her face in the scruffs of the wolves who licked her tears from her face (perhaps wondering at what, exactly, this strange pup was doing there). They walked and rolled beside her as she, weary, pulled herself to her feet with her father’s staff and stumbled her way forward and into the cave to rest. 

Who was she to become? Her eyes blurred holes into the dirt ceiling, the floor damp with bitten-off cries and gasped breaths.

It was a fair bit early to have this sort of crisis, but then she’d been early to a great many other milestones in life: early in birth, early to come into her magic, early to her first hunt, her first kill, her first broken bone, her first crush (raven-haired girl in the alienage, watching with bright blue eyes, the only one to see her and her sister as they slipped over ivy-brick-walls).

Her father had always said she did things as if she were afraid she’d run out of time to do them all, and it was with that very fear she wrestled with now. She’d already lost her family, after all, had left it for the pursuit of something intangible and determined.

What did that leave her with beside herself?

For that matter, who was she?

She lived the next long months of her life in a fuzzy sort of daze, wondering without words, mourning without knowing entirely what for, only that it was lost and she would never return to where she had set it down. The wolf pups grew into lives of their own, cared for by their mother and the creature that had saved their mother with fire and fiery, knotted hair until it was time for them to find their own paths.

The mother wolf and her yellow eyes watched over Fen’falon throughout those months and made sure that this strange pup of hers ate and drank as she needed to. They ran and hunted together, fought against bandits and a single templar as one unit, and slept under the stars when the weather was warm enough to entice.

For many months, it was like living in a fairytale. For many months, it was enough. She had little cause to remember her birthday when it passed, only remembered that the full moon after the trees changed colors had been something special, once.

She celebrated with a song her father had taught her, snared a rabbit in a trap her sister had made with her, and cooked it with the berries and mushrooms her mother had shown her were nothing to be feared.

Clan Lavellan found her in the form of two hunters some three days later.

Those two hunters were Malora and Brilwyn, and they drew their bows to shoot the gray-furred wolf that stood and snarled over something that looked approximately elf-shaped and very much dead.

This, my faithful listeners, is where I leave you, and where Fen’falon starts to tell her own story; these are the first things she can remember with any clarity, the first things that aren’t just half-sung tunes and the ghost of a smile in the light that filters through green leaves.

Rest assured, you will hear from me again whenever those other than Fen’falon wish to be remembered.


	3. Chapter One: Fang and Footstep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off, semi-proper-like! There'll be a few chapters describing Fen'falon's life in clan Lavellan before we get to the Conclave, so if you're here for anything other than my *wiggly hands* storytelling, you might want to wait until about chapter five or so.
> 
> That being said, hope you enjoy!

_Fur, coarse and soft. Taste of sleep in her mouth, hot breath in the air. Low drone with the birdsong, faint and sharp in dream-heavy ears. Eyes closed, arm and scars flung over, blocking out light._

_Low drone growing, separate into thirds. Voices, one pack and two strangers._

_Strangers’ drones worried, pack protective. Drones forming shapes, vaguely familiar, so many days, months, years._

“It's not attacking us, Malora. Can't you do your halla thing on it? I don't fancy the two of us trying to take on its fangs this close.”

“I doubt a wolf is anywhere similar to a halla. Besides, it's standing over one of the People, I think.”

“It's no one we know! Don't shoot and back away slowly.”

“I'm not leaving one of our own behind to become a snack. Do you hear me, wolf? Stand down, or I'll shoot. I'll bet my arrows fly faster than your teeth no matter how soon you jump.”

_Arrows, cruel bows on cruel backs. Yellow eyes looking for help, tired and spilling into dust for fear of family. Move, movemovemove! Sleep to waking, waking up, **wake up!**_

Her arms twitched to life of their own accord, one braced to push against the ground, the other darting like quicksilver fish to wrap around The Wolf's neck. Her throat and tongue strained to speak what she could only remember in half-muttered thoughts; she only ever spoke to The Wolf anymore, and even then only rarely. It was easier for both of them to let their eyes speak, for neither of them knew words to express what they were thinking.

“Fen. Fen falon. Don't shoot.”

She'd forgotten how deep her voice was, but she hadn't known how different its accent would sound in comparison to others of her kind--it sounded more like the few dwarves she could remember hearing in the human cities... perhaps because they were the last voices she remembered hearing?

Belatedly, she realized that both The Wolf's growling (the first droning, _ahah!_ ) and the voices of the two strangers (Malora and… someone) had both fallen silent. The former had likely gone quiet at hearing her seldom-used voice, whereas the latter two clearly hadn't even thought her living.

If there had been any doubt of their surprise, it was confirmed a heartbeat later.

“Did the corpse just talk?” Though her head was heavy and her eyes to the ground, Fen'falon's lips spasmed into a wry sort of smile, half-remembering what had once been a common, rather than uncommon gesture.

(To show teeth to a wolf, after all, was a sign of aggression. She still had scars from the one-time misunderstanding, little crescents on her throat in addition to everything else she was trying to forget.)

“Brilwyn, dear, how many times have you heard a corpse talk?”

“Couple of times at that old temple back in the Dirth, remember?”

“No, I don't. I'm not sure I want to, either. My point being, what, exactly, is the more likely conclusion?”

“He's alive?”

She chuckled softly, though laughter was quick to turn into a cough as her body slowly woke into the state of half-illness, half-neglect it had been in for days now.

~~She'd fallen into the laughing river and had laughed with it as it tried to drown her, tried to wash off the hands of those who had bruised and kissed when she went to look for clothes. The Wolf had found her shivering and battered against rocks, but that hadn't been what had broken her nose. It would be if anyone asked, but no one knew words to share with her.~~

“She is alive, yes. Don't shoot.”

Her hand fell from The Wolf and into dirt as she pushed herself upright, a curtain of red hair and twigs blocking most of her surroundings from view. Whatever wasn't blocked by that wildness was blocked by The Wolf's fur until she wrapped both arms around her scruff and used it to pull herself to her feet. Standing, she was eye-to-eye with Malora (raven hair and blue eyes, same as the elf from the alienage) and fox-like Brilwyn, slanted eyes bright and mischievous. Both watched her rise with gaping mouths as she picked up her father's staff and leaned on it, fawn-like and gangling on unsteady limbs but regal in the self-assured way of wild things.

Neither spoke as she dusted off her clothing, weariness in every gesture and breath. Neither spoke as she lay a hand on The Wolf's head, a fond smile twitching to life in the corners of her mouth. Brilwyn spoke tentatively as he glanced sidelong at Malora.

"So... A friend of yours, I take it?"

Malora hissed and drew her bow again, aiming it at Fen'falon herself this time.

"That... girl is standing with a wolf, and you dare to call her my friend?"

A scowl broke over Brilwyn's face, more jest than anything troublesome. "No, I asked if the wolf was a friend of _hers_. We've only just met, so who am I to say if she will be friend or foe? I should hope the former, though," he added with a wink.

Fen'falon chuckled, the sound as low and rumbling as any of The Wolf's growling.

"I would hope. You seem fine warriors, and I would hate to deprive your clan of you."

The thinly veiled threat and the reminder of kith, kin, and home drew pause from the pair. Malora's stern countenance faltered for a moment, as if she realized that she had what the then-young girl didn't have. Malora glanced to Brilwyn, and Brilwyn to Malora, sharing silent conversation in the depths of their eyes as only close friends might.

It was Malora who spoke next, ever the more tactful of the two.

"And what of your clan? Did your Keeper send you here to find us?"

Fen'falon paused, the weight of implication falling on her shoulders as only certain uncertainty does. Once more, she found herself at the crossroads of choice, and once more, she saw her family and the family that had wept for Markus on opposite roads, each beseeching and damning in their own right.

There was a third path, also, one that took her far from anything she knew or might have known.

For her family, she could continue traveling on her own with the faint, intangible promise of returning to them some time in the future. For the family of Markus, she could continue traveling on her own because she knew she was dangerous, and because she had no right to find whatever her curiosity bade her find.

The third path was the most selfish of the three, for it was the one of her own making: should she open herself to the possibility of being taken in, it was very likely she would never see her family again, and she would learn control over the aspect of herself that had killed a family and killed those hunters in cold blood.

(For all that she pretended otherwise, Fen'falon was very much afraid of the immense power at her fingertips; it was the sort that burned and hungered to be used, and it was the sort that was all too easy to listen to.)

She paused for a great long while, to the point where cautious Malora and bright-eyed Brilwyn began to shift their stance into something more cautious and militant. She deliberated, and they exchanged furrowed looks. She took a slow breath, and each tensed as if to strike.

In the end, it was far too easy to be selfish, and to fill her mind with platitudes: to the ghost of her family in her mind, she promised she would return; she had never broken her word before now, and she was unlikely to do so any time soon. To Markus' family, she offered an apologetic smile--they could rest uneasily, knowing that she could and likely would become tame while having what they no longer did.

"No Keeper of mine. I had traveled with my family, and now I travel with my pack." She patted The Wolf on her head and received the gentle brush of a tail against her legs in response. "I am in search of home and... knowledge."

She spun her staff loosely in her hand, gentle flames licking their way from crystal to flesh to wood and back again. Sharp-eyed Malora and ever-curious Brilwyn both watched, the former wary and the latter intrigued in the bright way of scholars and children. These gestures were easier than the words she could only half-remember.

Once more, the two friends exchanged words without speaking, arguments pressed into the breath of the forest around them, shimmering in the noonday light. The Wolf went from sitting to laying, sensing that all was well for the time being, even as it wasn't quite. Fen'falon listened to the whir of insects darting through the air and the sound of bird and animal calling until they each fell silent, one by one.

Brilwyn and Malora were still sparring in their silent way when the chitter of eight legs across leaf and dust reached her ears. Her staff became a whirl of motion and light, carving through the air with the snap-crackle-hum of magic, twisting into existence and shaped by her will.

The will to protect and defend summoned a barrier around the four of them with a rush of wind and the faint sound of bells tinkling. The will to move blurred Fen'falon into Fade-touched motion at the same time Malora and Brilwyn drew breath to question. At the same time, one of Thedas' infamous giant spiders made itself known by launching itself into the clearing, chattering angrily.

Distantly, Fen'falon wondered if they could chatter in any other way _but_ angrily. What would it take to make a giant spider chatter happily?

She decided she didn't want to know.

The will to kill met the spider's bloodthirstiness with fire and lightning that dripped and snapped like teeth from Fen'falon's fingertips. She rolled underneath the spider and jabbed her staff upward as the spider leapt, mandible first, towards Brilwyn, who was nearest to it of them all. The end of her staff sank into the spider's flesh, burbling and curdling and snapping as it burned white and bright into death. The spider let out a shrill screech of pain and indignant rage, as if wondering what small creature dared to fell it so quickly with its last few seconds of semi-conscious thought.

The whole incident was over in a manner of moments. For Fen'falon, who faced such creatures every time she slept if she couldn't find food to lure them away, it was a matter of habit and routine. For Malora and Brilwyn, who mostly stayed within sight of their clan's aravels, it was nothing short of an awe-inspiring display.

Fen'falon, being as she was a young and kind-hearted sort underneath her prickly exterior, quickly shrugged the spider's corpse off her body and wiped bits of gore and flesh from her face. She stood tall once more, wearing stark crimson against her fire-orange hair and a furrowed brow for her concern.

"No wounds?"

The Wolf merely thudded her tail against the ground once, for she had hardly felt the need to even anticipate getting up; her pup was wise and strong in her own right. Malora only nodded, but Brilwyn broke into a radiant smile and gave her a small round of applause--or as much applause as he could give while still holding his bow.

"Perfectly safe, thanks to you--fantastic display!"

Malora roused herself from her stupor shortly after, offering the first hint of a smile in the crinkled corners of her eyes.

"Indeed. We owe our lives to your quick reflexes."

Fen'falon smiled and went so far as to give a short little bow, as she had seen a number of people do, typically to lords and ladies of strange dress.

"Smart ears, more than anything. The Wolf taught me how to listen for trouble, before it comes."

Whatever smile Malora was preparing to give swiftly vanished at the mention of The Wolf, who she appeared to have all but forgotten about in her confusion and bemusement.

"Is that so? How did you find such a... wise creature? More to the point, how have you managed to tame it so?"

Fen'falon's smile turned ragged and sharp-toothed, much like The Wolf's as she lay at Fen'falon's side, panting contentedly, if not quite happily. It wasn't a particularly nice smile- that is to say, it wasn't a particularly cheerful smile- but it did well to hide her sudden urge to snap at the prying fingers that came attached to that Malora's questions.

Still, for all she wanted to drive the two of them far, far away from her and The Wolf, there was the very likely chance that she might never get another chance like this soon, if ever in the rest of her life. The Wolf only knew so much that could be taught, and there were some things even her company couldn't heal; there were cobwebs in her lungs, and no one could feel them but her--she needed help.

"I didn't 'tame' her as you said. I saved The Wolf, and in return, The Wolf saved me."

"So... she doesn't have a name?

"Brilwyn."

"What? If we're going to be talking to the two of them- at least for the foreseeable future, shouldn't we call her something other than 'strange child with a staff' and 'the big wolf that looked like it was going to eat the strange child with a staff'?"

Fen'falon chuckled, but the man did have a point. For that matter, his point had become an idea while Malora and Brilwyn's bickering grew distant in relation to her thoughts.

She was no longer her father and mother's child, not truly. She had lived alone for far too long (some seven or eight years- no, four at least, six at the most, something strange and formless that had burned with t- no one) and seen far too much to ever really be the same sort of curious her parents knew. For one thing, she was far more guarded, for another, far too critical and less willing to blindly follow in the history of her people. It was important, yes, crucially so when interacting with the shemlen, but it was also old, so second-hand as to be seventh and eight hands down the line of telling. There had to be things missing, and her exploration of the world and all its ruins had only served to strengthen this belief she had.

But all of those thoughts were neither here nor there. If she was to introduce herself, to take this chance to be something other than what she had been born as (not-herself, afraid, surviving, wondering, hoping but never-doing), she would need a name of her own choosing.

And so she thought back to yellow eyes meeting green, of the burn and crunch of seared flesh and charred bone, of cries of pain and cries of something further intangible. She thought of her father's stories and her own life, one fantastic and dream-like, the other fascinating and uncertain. She thought of the cries of Markus' family, forlorn and enraged, and she thought of the comfort of wolves howling at the moon.

All thoughts equally important and dear, each with a claim on her life as she knew it.

She thought of moments that hadn't yet faded into the half-formed things of memory and thought, of waking to voices both familiar and unfamiliar, and she knew what her name should be. She didn't think of her father's stories, of Fen'Harel and his misleading ways; she thought only of the wolves that she saved from cruelty and unkindness that had no real cause but for the whims of mortal races.

And so, Fen'falon cleared her throat and silenced arguing Malora and Brilwyn, and drew the attention of The Wolf on the ground.

"Call me Fen'falon. If The Wolf has a name, she hasn't told me."

Malora and Brilwyn's mouths parted, the former nearly scandalized, the latter offering a wicked grin, and they spoke without words once more. Whatever resolution they reached was offered with twin smiles, equal parts lopsided, grimacing, and smirking. Neither of the two elves seemed to know what to say until Brilwyn, ever-leaping into action, spoke blunt as a hammer.

"Most won't take to that sort of name, da'len. Are you sure you want to pick that?"

Capricous Malora, her smile turned to a furrowed brow once more.

"Brilwyn, we don't even know if the Keeper will allow her to sta--Creators, fine, don't give me that sort of look."

For fox-like Brilwyn had seen a friend and stalwart companion in this elf-child who befriended the things most his people feared: they feared him too, for his willingness to challenge what was known, and seek human knowledge of the things the Dalish had always taken for granted in their fragmented tales. It was why he had eventually left his home with Malora, his oldest friend, for clan Lavellan: he had heard tales that their Keeper sought to keep the peace with the shemlen while keeping with Elvhen ways (they were different, and to pretend otherwise was an offense to all who had died for the People) and hadn't been disappointed when he found out that was true.

"Come now, Malora, what's the worst that could happen?"

Malora's face soured as if she had the taste of citrus in her mouth.

"You do know the last time you said that, we got shot at, right? I still have the scar on my leg."

Brilwyn laughed, a harsh sort of cackling sound that would sooner befit the mythical Witch of the Wilds.

"No arrows from this one, only fire and lightning! At least that makes a noise or two before it hits you."

Fen'falon offered her own sharp-toothed smile. "Not that you seem to need it--you didn't even hear the spider."

This time, it was Brilwyn who pulled the sour face, and Malora who turned bright-eyed and full of laughter at her dear friend's expense. Fen'falon joined in and The Wolf huffed her own sort of laughter at Brilwyn's wounded pride until he, too, began to laugh.

The forest rang with this jubilant noise for quite some time, mingling with the call of birdsong until it faded into a strained sort of content. As with all things, that sense of peace couldn't last forever, and soon enough Malora's thoughtful scowl returned, and with it, her doubts.

"The Keeper-"

Even bright-eyed Brilwyn couldn't always keep his cheer, and it appeared that careful Malora's constant concern was fast losing its novelty. He moved to his friend's side and lay a gentle, but firm hand on her shoulder, drawing barely-suppressed ire to the surface of both their faces. At this, Fen'falon took a cautious step back. At that, The Wolf began to growl, half-rising to a wary crouch as it sought to protect her pup in even her growing age.

Brilwyn's sharp and startled glance soon turned to something like pity as he whispered, low and careful of Fen'falon hearing. She could hear him despite what he thought, her ears used to only the quiet murmurs of the forest and not the harsher quiet of civilized tongue; it was only natural she keep the knowledge of that advantage to herself.

"Malora, she's just a kid. She's barely the same age as your own sister, and she's sure as anything been on her own for way longer than is natural. You can tell she's been raised by one of the People, too; she knows what a Keeper is, and if she doesn't, she's damn clever enough to be brought into our own anyhow."

Fen'falon readied both her staff and her mind, the former to be used in defense should Malora and Brilwyn choose to attack, and the latter to escape from the tedium of hearing arguments that had already happened should the pair choose to bicker again.

"Brilwyn, you have to consider-"

"I've never considered anything in my life and you know it. Come on! Take a risk once in a while."

Fen'falon couldn't help but laugh at Brilwyn's statement of brashness. Her half-choked snicker drew his gaze, and if he was startled by the sudden realization that Fen'falon could, in fact, hear them, he pretended otherwise and went so far as to wink at her jovially. 

Malora took one look at Fen'falon, who was now hiding her shoulder-shaking laughter behind a hand and only just stifling the sound behind it, and gave the pained expression of someone who knew they were making a bad decision, but couldn't quite keep themselves from going through with it.

"Fine," said Malora, and all in the clearing brightened save for her, "But the wolf stays here," and all in the clearing paused save for her.

Fen'falon crossed her arms and scowled, acting her age for once. "The Wolf will come with me if she wishes. It is up to you how that works out for your clan." 

The Wolf, who still hadn't gone back to lying down, accentuated this with a growl of her own, exposing fang to sky, and the two Dalish to new fear. Brilwyn gave a hapless sort of smile that wobbled at the edges. Malora raised a brow, a smug question Fen'falon couldn't quite parse in her eyes. Brilwyn returned this with an almost comically pouting lip, and seemed as if he were trying to do his best impression of a mabari pup as far as Fen'falon could tell.

Stoic Malora would not be swayed, though she found Brilwyn's attempts at persuasion very amusing. She shook her head with a huff of laughter before turning to face Fen'falon once more.

"Two things, da'len: Firstly, I do not take kindly to threats. Secondly, this is not my rule so much as it is a suggestion: if you will recall, my- _our_ people don't take kindly to wolves on principle." She said all of this very slowly, as if talking to a toddler and not a young teenager.

Fen'falon snarled to rival The Wolf and even caused bright-eyed Brilwyn to look concerned as her snaggled teeth bit to the air.

"I'm well aware of the stories of my childhood, _hahren_ -" and at this, Brilwyn resumed his role as a jovial sentinel and Malora her stoic frown: she was stubborn, certainly, but wise enough to know she had made a misstep. "-I grew up with the tales of Fen'Harel. Yet, as you might've noticed, this wolf is the closest thing I have to family. You _**won't**_ take that from me."

Fen'falon paused for a moment, then barked a sharp sort of laughter. "Besides, it wasn't a threat: The Wolf will very much follow me to your clan until she sees fit to leave. She's as stubborn as you are like that."

Malora fell silent as Brilwyn did his very best to keep himself from laughing again. He mostly succeeded, though his shoulders shook as Malora sighed.

"Very well: on your own head be the consequences."

Brilwyn beamed, and his infectious cheer reached both Fen'falon and The Wolf simultaneously--both grinned, and in the case of the latter, it was an expression that somehow managed to be both heartwarming and terrifying all at once.

This was what Fen'falon had been searching for: someone who knew more than her father, who himself was not Keeper, and didn't know everything that they knew of their past. She idolized these people that she knew little of, having lived with nothing but interpretation for the longest portions of her life. Finally, finally, she was going to get some answers.

Just as soon as she could become the First of her clan, like her father and mother before her.

That... would take some time, she realized.

Malora and Brilwyn saw the strange, hopeful glitter in her eyes, and the both of them laughed to see the haunted hollowness of wild things start to leave her eyes. Though each had their own concerns and reservations about this idea, they didn't share any more of them with this strange girl they had found, little more than the rags and sticks under her burning hair and The Wolf that traveled, ever-faithful and watching by her side.

They certainly didn't share a fearful look with each other as The Wolf stared at them, long and knowing in the way of wild things that life was about to change: neither for better nor worse at the moment, but unquestionably permanently. Yellow eyes met blue and brown, sharp met stern and fox-like. They asked questions without words, and measured the worth of two elves against the lives of all her pups, and the continued heartbeat of a world that had existed long before, and would continue to exist long after the lives of civilized thing.

Whatever The Wolf's resolution, Fen'falon broke the stillness by laughing as she clapped her hands together in excitement. She and The Wolf bounded ahead of the direction Malora and Brilwyn began to travel, chasing each other over fallen logs and under rocks to loop back to their newfound friends. Both elf and wolf barked and yipped at each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and for them, it was.

Stoic Malora watched for the things that stalk the woods as Brilwyn did everything he could to pull Fen'falon's sharp barks of rumbling laughter to the surface: tripping and falling for comedic effect did wonders, especially when paired with claims that the trees were sentient and out to kill him.

"I'm telling you, they know who I am and they want to see me burn!"

"Not so much burn as become dust. Trees don't like fire."

"Ah yes, that's so much better."

The Wolf and Malora exchanged a reluctantly knowing look behind the backs of each their charges: both were silly, quick-witted things, too clever for their own good, and too stubborn to back down from themselves. Where one had that personality of his own accord, the other had developed it out of the necessity for survival.

Still, the endless number of puns about falling in autumn, getting to the root of a problem, and asking the forest to leaf Brilwyn alone was dangerously close to being amusing, even for them, these two creatures so at odds with one another.

Hours passed in this tentative trust, marked only by the progression of jokes into stories and stories into companionable silence as Malora's thoughts turned in her head.

The Dalish feared and resented wolves for their connection to Fen'Harel. Malora was no different than most in that regard, and it was to those old tales that her thoughts turned as she cast wary glances at a veritable wall of gray fur and muscle. This close to it- her, if Fen'falon was to be believed- she couldn't help but be a little afraid; wolves were predators built to crush bone between their teeth, so she figured it was more than fair on her part.

She couldn't figure out how a creature like that could be motherly to something like an elf until Fen'falon stumbled over a root and The Wolf darted forward, teeth bared as if sensing weakness and striking. Before Malora could even draw breath to utter the cry of warning that had flown to her lips, The Wolf had already righted Fen'falon with a gentle backwards tug.

Malora was further surprised but no less wary than she had been once Brilwyn handed Fen'falon his bow and proceeded to carry the elf, her staff, and his own weapon on his back to give her tired feet a break. Rather than becoming angry that someone else had taken charge of what was arguably 'her' pup, The Wolf watched the events unfold almost fondly, going so far as to sit and thump her tail on the ground once, then twice before resuming her leisurely prowl.

She was nowhere near to trusting the creature as Fen'falon did, nor was she trying to make its friend like Brilwyn, but she could almost understand. Brilwyn, damn him, knew what he was doing when he'd brought up her dear Raiana; she could imagine all too well their lives going a similar sort of differently, had the Keeper of her previous clan (a man she no longer thought of by name) not taken them in after those weeks of fire and steel. She was to Raiana as The Wolf was to Fen'falon, the only idea of family that either could find in their circumstance.

She was pulled from her thoughts by a tap on her shoulder. Brilwyn had fallen into step beside her on the right, and The Wolf had done similarly on the left. Fen'falon was fast asleep on his shoulders, a faint smile visible where it peeked out from behind the curtain of her red hair.

Malora felt a smile of her own twitch at the corners of her lips as she glanced down at The Wolf.

"I don't suppose you know why the poor dear's so tired?" She asked in a whisper.

If The Wolf had anything to say, she didn't share it as she answered with a slow blink. Malora was rather glad, as a talking wolf was almost certain to be possessed, and she didn't know if she could fight a wolfish abomination.

Now there was a thought. A terrifying one, but a thought nonetheless.

"Didn't think so."

Another tap on her shoulder had her eyes following Brilwyn's finger as it pointed out the red sails of their clan's aravels in the distance. Trepidation gnawed at her stomach as it began to sink, but one glance at The Wolf standing directly to her side, and Malora had a strong feeling that she shouldn't suggest abandoning this foolish plan.

Just a hunch, considering The Wolf seemed plenty intelligent enough to understand what they had been saying up until this point. The fact that The Wolf was standing directly next to her was absolutely no additional incentive at all, either.

She glanced back to Fen'falon on Brilwyn's shoulders, at the smiles on both their faces. Two things both fond and painful twisted in her heart, temporarily smoothing the creases on her forehead. Somehow, she'd ended up with another stray, and though it was absolutely nothing like the time Brilwyn had tried to convince her to take in a particularly druffalo, there was an element of protectiveness written in the set of both their shoulders.

Neither of them knew where Fen'falon's family was, but they both knew what it was like to be alone, and they both knew what it was like to have nothing but one other person to rely on.

Perhaps Malora was thinking too loudly, or perhaps she had gotten stuck, smiling at the bundle of rags and red that was Fen'falon; whatever the reason, Brilwyn saw the half-fond smile on her face and caught her glance with the lopsided, bright-eyed, and awe-filled smile that never failed to make her heart pause in its ever-certain rhythm.

They'd wound up with one more sibling, the pair of them.

The Wolf looked between the two of them and chuffed softly, as if realizing how quickly and how thoroughly the pair of them had fallen into this role, and laughing as distrust turned to a wary sort of trust, tempered by similar memories.

All their thoughts fell silent as the forest turned a border of brush and boulders, then slowly into the almost-grasslands of this particular part of the Free Marches. Brilwyn paused on a rise overlooking the camp, moss and dirt clinging to all of their feet, something inscrutable in their eyes. 

"Is all well, Brilwyn?"

"They're not going to like her. Or you," He said to The Wolf, eyes to the sails below.

Malora sighed, shook her head with a wry smile. She'd already said as such, and Brilwyn knew that--it was clear in the pause that followed his words, and the chuckle afterward.

"They didn't like us in the beginning either, Brilwyn. They'll adjust."

"Yeah, well. You know most of the clan isn't as..."

"Open to disregarding a fair few of our beliefs? Willing to take in strays? Open-minded-in-general?"

Brilwyn scowled. "Yes, yes, all of those, you've made your point."

Malora grinned, sharp-edged with nerves that had been smothered under suspicion. The two of them stood for a moment suspended in doubt, buffeted by grassland wind and uncertainty alike.

"There's not really any point in delaying, is there?" Said Brilwyn, to break the mounting tension.

"Not really, no."

"We could take a leaf from her book and take to the woods on our own."

"Brilwyn."

"Yes, I know, it's stupid."

"Why are you second-guessing yourself now? You're the one who wanted to bring her in the first place. Besides, she wanted to come too--if she hadn't, I have no doubt that 'The Wolf' would have ensured we left her well alone."

The Wolf barked softly, as if in agreement, and both Brilwyn and Malora gave her a nervous glance before looking back to each other.

"See?" Said Malora, once more firm in her convictions (for a wolf was not the sort of creature you ignored, even when you were uncertain if such a creature should be so smart).

Brilwyn frowned picked at a loose thread on his tunic sleeve, causing Malora to sigh and stand next to him. She placed a gentle hand over his and chose her next words carefully, doing her best to reassure him in this course they had decided to take.

"She's been alone in that forest for Creators know how many weeks, months, or years, and who knows where she was beforehand? She's clearly unused to talking and being around anyone more humanoid than her friend here, and yet she knows of language and of the stories of our People. She's had to have lost her family somehow, Brilwyn, and if we're going to take her in, at the very least she'll have two people looking out for her that she didn't have before."

Brilwyn stared at her, mouth slightly agape and bright eyes glittering. Malora looked up to see this, then scowled at his surprise. "What?"

He quickly composed himself into a smile, looking at her fondly and just a bit stupidly because of that dopey smile.

"That's the most I've ever heard you talk at once."

Malora punched him. Gently, of course, and on the arm that he wasn't using to hold both his and Fen'falon's weapons, which had almost been dropped when the girl fell asleep. His laughter, for once, was not the loud and boisterously thundering thing of a hundred hooves rumbling against the ground; it was subdued into snickering, his shoulders shaking slightly with the effort to contain all his mirth.

"I'll have you know, I'm perfectly capable of talking for hours when there's a point to it. Small-talk is useless and... Oh, shut it. I'm done talking to you--let's get to the camp."

A wicked grin crossed her face then, quickly quieting Brilwyn's mockery as he wondered what trick Malora was about to pull. She never smiled like that unless it was at his expense (meaning he often opened himself to unfortunate situations in order to see its thrilling nature), or if she was about to eviscerate someone, be it physically or verbally.

Naturally, he was hoping for the former rather than the latter. For once, he even got his wish.

"Last one to the camp has to take point when talking to the Keeper!" And with that, she was gone, grass and dust bowing in the wake of her swift strides down the hillside.

"Oi! Did we miss the part where I have an actual child on my back?" He said this mostly to The Wolf, who merely gave him a bemused look and started racing after Malora.

Brilwyn gave in with a sigh and ran as gently and smoothly as he knew how. In fairness, carrying a Fen'falon on his back was practically nothing to running along the branches of trees while carrying his now-grown brother, which-

-Which was not a memory he needed to visit while trying to pay attention to where his footsteps were falling.

He'd only just caught up to Malora, whose sharp-edged grin pierced the sky as she ran, when he heard the cries of their guards.

"Malora and Brilwyn are back!"

"What's that Brilwyn's carrying?"

"Is that a _wolf_ chasing Malora?"

There were a number of alarmed cries. As Brilwyn drew breath to tell his men to stand down, Malora raised her arms and shouted in response, something Brilwyn knew happened very rarely.

"Don't shoot! I'll explain in a moment, but don't shoot the wolf!"

Brilwyn felt Fen'falon's grip on his shoulders tighten and knew that the girl had been awake for quite some time already.

"It may be best if you pretend to be sleeping for this next little bit, da'len." He murmured.

Brilwyn felt more than saw her nod as she relaxed her arms, for all the world asleep. He had to wonder what life this girl- just barely past her first decade of life, if he was correct- led, to be so skilled at falsifying consciousness.

He supposed that, if he and Malora managed to convince the Keeper, and then the clan, to let her stay, he'd have plenty of time to find out.

Malora skidded to a halt just before the outer edge of camp, breathless with the exhilaration of wild things. The Wolf stopped some yards behind her, turning to face Brilwyn and Fen'falon as he more carefully made his way to stand by his friend. 

Three sets of feet stood side by side, while another set dangled by Brilwyn's shoulders. Three sets of eyes looked at the twenty-eight sets of eyes while another set stayed closed out of obedience. Twenty-eight pairs of eyes watched and waited for an explanation that wasn't forthcoming without the Keeper's presence, murmuring and wondering and whispering and pondering.

Fen'falon pretended to sleep through it all, teeth gritted against what she couldn't see.

Clever, cordial Ionowen, who had been standing guard at the Keeper's tent, asked that Istimaethoriel come handle the situation before anyone could be brought to harm. Several of the hunters- wary Alarian, reverent Yevrand, and battle-worn Devetriel- seemed poised to attack, and Ionowen knew there was more to the situation than she was able to understand at the time.

And so the regal Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan emerged from her tent, all white hair, nut-brown skin, and draping robes, saw The Wolf, saw Fen'falon, and fixed Brilwyn and Malora with a stern look that masked her resigned amusement.

"What have you brought upon us this time, you two?"


	4. Chapter Two: Hurry Up and Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fen'Falon meets clan Lavellan, and snarking ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still tapping away at this slowly, for all like four of you that might be following this :P College is a Big Old Stress, which means sometimes you just gotta write a bunch of not stressful words sometimes.
> 
> And now, to do battle with the Ancient Aegeans.

_"What have you brought upon us this time, you two?"_

There was something to be said about the silence that fell upon the camp--like a blanket of feathers, perhaps, or smoke and mist.

Whatever it was, Brilwyn mused, it had a certain deafening quality to it. They'd taken a plunge into unknown waters, and now they were drowning in uncertainty, which was rather disconcerting if you thought about it too much.

How poetic. He hadn't used to be prone to metaphors. That was entirely Malora's doing; she was a poet at heart, though whether or not she'd admit it to him depended on the day's events.

That being said, the silence itself was unnerving. The Keeper was waiting for a response, and he was too busy smiling around the sensation of his stomach dropping to think of anything besides the ringing panic in his ears because _oh Creators, this'll be the thing that the Keeper kicks us out for, won't it?_

Except not, as not for the first time, Malora beat him to whatever foolish thing he was about to say.

"A friend, Keeper. The girl was raised as one of us, as she knew far more about our traditions than any city elf might. She said she has no family to call her own anymore, so we brought her here, as one does."

Malora smiled, and it was the sort of joking smirk that most of the clan would associate with him instead of her. He’d never been more grateful to call her a friend than in that moment, with a bow and a staff in his hands, a strange kid on his back, and the kid's wolf, mother, guardian(?) at his back.  
Everyone was ignoring that particular elephant in the room- the wolf in the clearing, as it were. Various people gave it- no, gave her,- nervous glances, but no one seemed willing to draw attention to her, as if doing so would somehow make her a more real threat than she already was.

Which was silly, really, wolves always had their teeth, but it didn't change the fact that the Keeper was silent save for the crook of her brow.

That finally loosened his tongue enough to employ his own means of diffusing tension.

"Plus, she saved our lives on the way back, so we kind of owe her. Side note, the forest has spiders. _So many spiders._ "

He gave a facetious little shudder that drew hesitant chuckles from those less on edge, and did a little to relax the tension in those that were more so, namely the veterans of the Clan's previous troubles. Quite understandably, no one seemed to know what to do when two of your family bring back some wild kid and a wolf that isn't really acting wolf-ish, but for the most part, they seemed willing to let the fact slide by.

Then the Keeper furrowed her brow, and any progress he and Malora might've made to reassure the twenty-odd souls that stood in judgement faded in an instant; the clan resumed its incessant whispering and began to exchange suspicious glances once more.

"If she is a friend, shall we welcome the wolf into our midst as well? It seems as harmless as she."

Brilwyn wasn't entirely sure how to take that. Either the Keeper was saying that neither The Wolf nor Fen'falon were dangerous, or she was implying that some small twitch of a thing was as dangerous as a beast straight out of their legends.

Given how quickly she'd dealt with the spider, and the fact that she'd been on her own for what sounded like years, he was starting to suspect the latter, which was ridiculous if you thought about it, because really she couldn't be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. And sure, most of that was lean muscle and she had scars across her neck and arms that showed she was no stranger to battle, but really, she'd been living on her own in the wilderness for years. As the spiders had proven, there were plenty of things willing to eat the unwary in the wilderness, which is why he didn't particularly care for forests, give him the plains any day, and--

\--And Malora was giving him a pointed look, which meant he needed to work some of his not-quite infamous not-quite charm on the Keeper.

His next smile was perfectly charming and absolutely radiant, thank you very much, so much so that Yevrand giggled and Huthen gave an audible but fond sigh at his husband's schenannigans.

"Let's put it this way, Keeper; remember how years ago, we were going to take Malora in but not Raiana?"

A frown. "I remember."

"I seem to recall a certain number of minor injuries."

This drew a few more chuckles from the clan, the injuries of the past smoothed over into memories to laugh about thanks to time and friendship. If her scowl and hissed admonition were anything to go by, that wasn’t what Malora had expected to happen.

Woops.

"Brilwyn!"

"What? No shame in fighting for the things you love, particularly if they're family, which is what that wolf is to the girl. She's perfectly harmless- both of them are, really- so long as they're together. Well, harmless to anything not trying to separate them, I'd say."

Once again, any ground he might have gained in getting the clan to see the wolf as something approximately friendly was abruptly lost at the reminder of The Wolf and her potential ferocity. The Keeper's perplexed frown deepened further, to the point where Brilwyn was actually starting to get a little concerned, and the rest of the clan began to murmur uncertainly. He was grateful that Raiana and her cheerfulness were currently keeping the children occupied on the far side of camp: if Fen'falon were to have any friends among her own age, then the children needed to form their own opinions about her.

Children often had a more open way of looking at things. He could only hope the adults in their lives wouldn't warp that openness before Fen'falon had friends.

Fen'falon, for her part, was doing a remarkably wonderful job of pretending to be asleep; the only hint he had to prove otherwise at the moment was the too-tight grip on his shoulders that Brilwyn wished he could reassure. He knew what it was like to have no control over your future, and could imagine some of what the poor girl was going through. Assuming she was poor of fortune, that was; for all he knew, she was perfectly content to return to living in the wilderness.

Remembering the sudden brightness in her eyes as Malora promised her a chance in the world, he somehow doubted that. He also became even more determined to see her safely brought into a family she could call her own.

Really now, the Keeper had taken a fair few of them in from circumstances as strange, if not stranger than this. It was part of what allowed them to be open-minded while still traditional; they were a clan equal parts 'typical' Dalish and 'atypical' Dalish, united in their culture, divided in their beliefs and interpretations.

It was this knowledge that allowed him to both be utterly unsurprised as well as very pleasantly surprised when the Keeper pinched the bridge of her nose before looking to Ionowen, Hahren Taheli, Cyrus, Raiana, and Hathan. Malora looked to him instead, knowing full well the importance of that many significant glances.

A meeting of the higher-ups. Fen'falon wouldn't be rejected immediately, at least. The girl seemed to sense this, her fingers turning to iron instead of the talon-like vice grip that left stinging welts under his shirt.

Malora moved to his side properly, The Wolf moved to stand behind the both of them, and the sudden movement seemed to finally shatter the clan's collectively held breath. A few lingered to peer curiously at their group of four, but most simply returned to whatever they had been doing before they'd all charged in there like maniacs, and had it really been a smart idea to go charging into camp like that Malora?

"Stop thinking so loudly. That's my job, remember? You haven't considered anything in your life."

"This isn't considering. Mental rambling. Nonverbal meandering."

"Ah, my mistake. What's say we get you, your 'nonverbal meandering', and our two friends into your tent for the next few hours? Valowynn's been sent to guard you."

Malora nodded over her shoulder, and, sure enough, Valowynn stood only a few yards off, silver hair braided to the small of her back and gleaming the same as her plate armor. She was closer to Malora, seeing as how she was her second in command, but she was fairly friendly with him by association.

It was better than ending up with her brother Yevrand, truth be told. The man was as traditional as they came, and would no doubt make Fen'falon know just how unwelcome she was to certain people in their clan.

Like he said; Clan Lavellan was equal parts traditional and open-minded. 

Home sweet home.

They took her to his tent. It was sparse, all the easier to take down and move on, but it was well-loved and carried over from his former home. It wasn't like his old Keeper or clan needed it anyways; what use did a bunch of ash and corpses have for a tent? They slept in the ground now.

He'd painted his favorite of their stories on the inside, where none but he and Malora ventured anymore. Even she didn't know about the painting of Fen'Harel and the Slow Arrow wrapped around the central pole of it, where he hung his sort-of-hammock from.

He wasn’t sure what he’d be able to say in response, either. ‘It was a smartass solution and I too, am a smartass’ didn’t particularly seem like a valid argument. Still.

Malora wasn't sure how he could sleep in what was "basically a glorified knapsack", and he didn't have the words to explain the familiar comfort of being swaddled and hanging in the air. Neither did he remember his mother well enough to tell the story of how he'd seen the sky for the first time, blue dappled with green and sunlight as his mother taught him how to stay silent as she scouted ahead of the aravels. He'd been wrapped in 'a glorified knapsack' then, too.

Those were simpler times only because of how the world had been framed for him. Still, even though he knew the truth to their perpetual motion, far more frantic than even the most migratory of the clans still living, he couldn't help but long for it a little.

And he was sidetracked again. Perhaps carrying Fen'falon for so long had made him more tired than he'd originally thought. He certainly wasn't aware enough to realize The Wolf had followed them in as well, though Malora was.

He jabbed his elbow into her side to dispel the frown burrowing between her eyebrows.

"Help me out, will you? I've a back full of kid and a handful of weapon."

Malora didn't even get a chance to draw breath before Fen'falon spoke, voice sharp with wariness and a familiar sort of fear that Brilwyn chalked up to the unknown surroundings and circumstance she was now in.

"Can I get down?"

"I'm certainly not going to object. For someone as small as you are, you feel an awful lot like an entire halla on my spine."

"Take better care of your halla, I barely weigh anything. Better, build more muscle."

Malora snickered, to which he could only roll his eyes and smile.

"Great, now there's two of you mocking me. Let me know when to start taking the insults seriously."

Malora chuckled, then left the tent by way of the flap, which Brilwyn could only assume meant that she was talking to Valowynn and waiting on word from the Keeper. Fen'falon muffled her laughter with a yawn that was smothered in the back of his shirt. That more than anything prompted him to gently hang his bow on the hook he'd built into the king pole (which served a variety of functions, really) and gently lay Fen'falon's staff on the ground by The Wolf, who seemed to be waiting for it expectantly.

"You want the hammock or the floor? I'm fine either way, have a spare blanket or three."

"Floor, Wolf, blanket. Good."

Definitely tired. Not that she'd talked much to begin with, but her sentences were shorter, and her words were starting to blur at the edges. The Wolf seemed to agree, trotting over to the chest and backpack he used as most of his storage space. Brilwyn could only watch as she nudged the lid open and pulled out a thick woolen blanket he'd traded a fisherman several rabbits for, the man clearly grateful to eat something other than his catch for what he saw as a rather inexpensive price.

In all honesty, it was probably the comfiest thing he owned. Brilwyn half-hesitated at the thought of it becoming dirty, but then The Wolf laid it on the floor, prodding and poking it until it resembled a nest tucked almost out of sight on the far side of the chest. Naturally, he wasn't about to argue with something that had more teeth than he did, especially not at close range.

It appeared Fen'falon liked to be hidden, which made a lot of sense in hindsight. An Elven mage, one not clearly Dalish, a member of a Circle, or from an alienage; Fen'falon would be something unknown to those who encountered her on her travels, particularly with a wolf at her heels. People typically tended to be fearful when they faced the unknown.

He wondered how many of those encounters ended peacefully.

He did as The Wolf not-so-subtly suggested, laying Fen'falon down as gently as he could in that circle of cotton. Fen'falon seemed lost to the world around her, pulling the blanket as close as a second skin. The Wolf acted as a protective barrier to Fen'falon's back; she curled up around her like she would her own pups and rested her head on the elf’s side, looking out to the door as if daring anyone to disturb that which slumbered beneath her.

Brilwyn could only look on with faintly veiled amusement, as he'd love to see someone try to do just that. Not actually, as that'd probably lead to the aforementioned someone getting the wits scared out of them at the very least. Regardless, he couldn’t fathom why or how someone could look at the two of them with anything but fondness. They were a family, as close as you could get to another living being, built on trust, support, and shared hardship.

He felt the knife-like twist of loss in his stomach, memories of his brother stinging the corners of his eyes.

He would do better for Fen'falon. He had to. Only part of that determination was because he thought The Wolf might disapprove if he didn't, and that was something he didn't want to risk.

He would do better. He had to.


	5. Chapter Three: Hit the Ground Running (Er, Sleeping)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we watch Fen'falon, Malora, Brilwyn, and the whole of the Lavellen clan get through the rest of their first day of a new forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My NaNoWriMo goal was originally to write 2000 words of this fic a day, but then college politely smacked me upside the head with a baseball bat, so. I do have another chapter on the way though, so if you guys are still kicking around, we're about to blitz through the next... 15ish years of Fen'falon's life in two or so chapters.
> 
> And then, the real fun will begin :D
> 
> As usual and customary, I don't own anything except what I'm legally allowed to. Don't sue me or anything, I have literally $12 in my bank account.

"So, Malora."

"So, Valowynn."

"You gonna tell any of us what the deal with that kid is?"

"It is as I said; Brilwyn and I found her not too terribly far from here. As far as I can tell, she's been looking for a clan to take her in for some time. Mentioned having traveled with her family before she started traveling with that wolf of hers, so I'm assuming she was in a different clan before then. Doesn't talk a whole lot; I think she's mostly forgotten how to by this point. She looks about twelve years old, but could be either younger or older for all I know."

"So in short, you have as much idea as the rest of us. Brilwyn convince you to bring her back?"

"Pretty much. She reminded me of Raiana when she was younger, and naturally he noticed."

"Ouch… Low blow."

"Sort of. Any idea what the Keeper and all are thinking? I know you're hearing more than you're letting on."

"What makes you say that?”

“Valowynn.”

“Right; the Keeper's been quiet for the most part, and you know I can't hear Ionowen speak. Your Raiana wants to let the girl stay and says that her wolf seems more like a mabari than a beast."

"I'm sure Hathan and Cyrus think the two are interchangeable."

"We didn't all grow up in Fereldan, now."

"Yes, but we all have eyes, don't we? They aren't the same. The shemlen are right in that much, at least."

"Sure, sure, so you tell me. At any rate, Hathan and Cyrus seem apprehensive but aren't about to turn the kid away when she's nowhere else to go, so Hahren Taheli's the only one who's vehemently opposed to it. Which, as you know, tends to stall any actual discussion."

"Why? I've never known him to be vehemently opposed to anything, he's usually a very forgiving sort."

"Malora, his brother? The wolf that this 'Fen'falon' has at her heels? The girl's name itself? Her very existence is a slap in the face to him."

"Creators, I can't believe I forgot that. Right, that makes sense, then."

"Why do you care if she stays, anyway?”

...

"Malora?"

"Do you remember how Raiana and I first stumbled into your camp by accident? She smelled of smoke and-"

"And you were covered in blood for reasons you still won't tell us."

"It's Raiana's story to tell, not mine; she will tell it when she's ready. As I was saying; she smelled of smoke and had this look in her eye... I'm not sure I can even describe it now, but... it was like everything that made her the girl I knew had crawled into a pit to wither and die."

"Like she'd had all the hope scraped out of her, leaving something hollow inside."

"Uh."

"What? I can be poetic too! Sometimes. Not as much as you, but still."

"That's not- that wasn't- would you just let me finish?"

"Fine, fine."

"I am your superior officer, you know."

"Are you? I must have missed a memo."

"How charming, you're taking after Brilwyn."

"The kid, Malora."

"Tch. My point being, this Fen'falon had a similar look to Raiana. You know, she said she'd traveled with her family before meeting that wolf of hers, not her clan."

"You sound thoughtful. Do I need to be as concerned as the last time you had that tone? I don't think Alador's recovered from-"

"It taught him not to harass Miriss, didn't it? But no, there's nothing to be concerned about. I only wonder why she doesn't say 'clan' instead of family."

"If she traveled with her family, is it possible her parents weren't of the People?"

"I doubt it. She said she grew up with our stories, and I'm inclined to believe her; she and Brilwyn exchanged some of their favorites on the way over."

"So what does it mean, then?"

"You know as much as I do, Valowynn."

"So, nothing."

"Almost nothing. Something similar to what happened to Raiana must have happened to her to give her such a similar expression. I shudder to think what- she can't be older than Raiana, and she certainly hasn't had a lot of experience with a lot of people."

"What, are you saying she's daft in the head?"

"Valowynn."

"How else am I supposed to say it?"

"Not like that, and she's fine. I only meant that it would be a miracle if she's not rotting from the inside out with old hurts."

"And that's why you care?"

"That's why I care. This is no different from many of us, really; she wants a home and a family. I can assure you that at least some part of her is lonely, or else her eyes wouldn't have brightened at the prospect of coming here."

"Aww, geez. Why'd you and Brilwyn have to go and give her false hope? What if the Keeper doesn't let her stay?"

"Then I imagine Brilwyn will go with her when she leaves, as he's more insistent about helping her than I am."

"Wow."

"What? He was the one that said her name would be a problem, and I was the one who said that there was no guarantee she'd be allowed to stay."

"You're a right ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

"That's 'You're a right ray of sunshine, aren't you, sir.'"

"Why the sudden formality, _sir_?"

"Because I saw Ionowen poke her head out the flap, which means they've either come to a conclusion, or decided to take a break for the evening and return come the morning. Besides, you know how Hahren Taheli is about respect."

"Ah, yes. Terribly thoughtful of her; You have friends in high places, sir."

"I was her commanding officer before she retired, which is something you should keep in mind, eh Valowynn?"

"Certainly, sir."

Sure enough, a handful of moments passed in terse silence before Ionowen, followed by Raiana, exited the tent. Malora caught Raiana's eye, and her sister offered a beaming smile as she wound her way back towards the children, who were now starting to grow too rowdy for even their parents to entertain, eager to know what had transpired within the Keeper's tent. Ionowen gave only a friendly wave before she strode off at a brisk clip, likely to speak to someone on the Keeper's behalf.

Cyrus and Hathan emerged next, the former's arm wrapped around the latter's shoulder as the two of them laughed great rumbling chuckles that fell like boulders against a cliff face. Cyrus offered Malora a respectful nod before meandering in the general direction of Hathan's tent.

Then came Hahren Taheli, sharp features made jagged by the fury in his flinty, storm-colored eyes and a shock of white hair that stood like lightning as he strode towards Malora and Valowynn. Neither of them managed to even draw breath before he spat out words like nails.

"You dare call yourself Elvhen, one of the People? Not one of our people would dare willingly bring a harbinger of the Dread Wolf into camp! Yet here you stand, proud and uncaring of the blasphemy you have committed. What could you possibly have to say in defense of that... **_creature_**."

He spat the word like it was poison; it seethed and lingered in the air.

Malora fell silent, her words lost to the foaming, seething rage that swelled within her chest and threatened to foam and bubble past her teeth. She had been raised to have respect for her elders, but sometimes they simply tested the very limit of her patience. Hahren Taheli was particularly vindictive in his beliefs; she had little doubt that every person in the clan could recount at least two, but more likely four or five times that she and Brilwyn in some configuration or other had butted heads with Taheli regarding how their legends should be interpreted. She respected his kindness and fairness in all matters that weren't of the religious variety, but she loathed moments like these when he wouldn't leave her alone until she provided him with an answer that sufficiently pleased or incited him.

And how _dare_ he question the depths of her soul? What gave him the right to think that his version of what and who the gods are or were was inherently the superior option? How _dare_ he call her uncaring, how _dare_ he accuse her of defiling the beliefs she'd been so strongly bound to from the very moment she drew her first breath into the world?

How _**dare**_ he?

And yet, she understood. He'd lost his brother in a poorly planned hunting expedition shortly before she and Raiana had arrived. She knew that it was all too easy to project conscious malevolence onto the world around them. While she knew that the wolf would have attacked to defend itself as per its nature, he was all too willing to give cruelty to something that had none. Nature simply was; it was neither cruel nor benevolent, all it was was itself.

It was only people that liked to think of things in black and white.

Sometimes, terrible things happened for no reason at all. The truest test of character, Malora thought, was in the ability to keep moving forward. She understood that as well as anyone could, better than most in the clan.

This was how Malora found herself slowly drawing breath before exhaling on a low hiss, the likes of which Valowynn knew meant she was about to lose some of her carefully-controlled temper. That sudden insight was all the permission that the warrior needed to slip inside the Keeper's tent and inform her on what was being spoken in low, angry tones outside. In turn, that flicker of motion gave Malora all the time she needed to formulate her response properly.

"I do dare. I dare stand as one of the People, a voice for this Wolf who is no harbinger but her own, and for the fact I care far more than you truly must in this moment."

Taheli's flinty expression dimmed somewhat, brought about by confusion and wariness.

Malora wore a smirk under her face, deep within her heart and where it would cause no further antagonizing.

"I see every possible potential for this girl who has begun a life alone and afraid, and I see a scared old man who is dangerously close to never moving past the horrors and hurts of years ago. Here you stand, bitter and angry at something which has never hurt you, committing blasphemy against your own self-proclaimed ideals of kindness, fairness, and truth."

She looked up and met his stare unflinchingly, pity and contempt chasing circles in sapphire eyes.

"We dare call you Hahren? Call yourself _"mir nan"_ , if that is all you can be concerned with."

Though it had only been Taheli who had raised his voice, something icy about her voice slithered throughout the camp and left it silent in its wake.

If such a thing were even possible, Taheli grew even more stone-faced with fury, sparks all but flying out of his eyes as he stormed off with shoulders bunched. If she were being quite honest, Malora didn't think he was physically capable of showing more anger without bursting a vein. And yet for all that he'd affected his righteous indigence, she could see the faintest glimmer of fear in his eyes.

He was afraid of becoming that which he loathed, prejudiced against the downtrodden. As he should be. He was fast on his way to becoming that.

Valowynn slipped her way back to Malora's side a moment later, a wide, lopsided grin baring many teeth to the air. She clapped slowly, letting out a low whistle.

"Impressive! He came at you with a club, and you stabbed him with a rapier."

"Not as such; I carry a short-sword, as you well know."

Valowynn's eye roll was all but audible. "I've only heard you make that joke forty times this year. Take a compliment, why don't you?"

"I did take it, as I will now take my leave; I need to speak to the Keeper and make my own sort of case."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Care to share?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Oh come _on_ , Malora."

"I'm so glad to see that your nosiness hasn't diminished in the years that I've known you."

"It's my defining feature, yes. You love me for it, I'm sure."

"Whatever you say. I'll speak with you later."

Malora gave a small wave as she walked away from Valowynn's indignant spluttering with a fond smile; that woman was entirely too inquisitive for her own good sometimes.

The Keeper had her back to the tent flap as she ducked inside, appearing lost in thought. She was as regal and stoic as she always was, standing at her desk as though she would endure the passage of time forever, like the People had once done, long ago.

For all Malora knew, she very well might. So long as Keeper Istimaethoriel achieved that immortality without the same consequences of her previous Keeper's actions, she wouldn't protest.

As if thinking her name had brought attention to her arrival, the Keeper suddenly turned to face Malora with a wry smile on her sun-worn face.

"Is it your turn to make a case, then?"

Malora smiled in kind, half-wishing it were so.

"Forgive me for being presumptuous, but past experience leads me to believe that if you took Raiana and I in, a wolf and her companion will be almost easy in comparison."

The Keeper only hummed thoughtfully, then sat and steepled her fingers where her elbows rested atop one of many books.

Malora pressed her luck while she still had the Keeper's attention.

"You should know that Fen'falon is capable of particularly advanced kind of magics that I have only experienced once, prior to my and Raiana's arrival; disregarding the fact that she appears to have a vast amount of potential and likely has other tricks I know nothing about, she is capable of skimming the surface of the Fade so as to blur and quicken her speed in the physical world."

"Is she what the Andrastrians call a hedge-witch, then?"

"I don't believe so; from the little I know of technique, it seemed like the usual one."

"And you're telling me this because Taheli is currently completely and utterly opposed to the girl's existence in the clan as a whole, meaning that I or Ionowen, as the only other mages that might be above this hypothetical level of power, will have to help her ourselves if I allow her to stay?"

"Precisely."

"How is she doing, if I might ask?"

"She was all but asleep before I even left Brilwyn's tent"

"And The Wolf?"

"Curled around her like a particularly protective blanket."

"Hm."

"Ma'am?"

"I've said before, you don't have to call me that."

"I've said before, it's a tough habit to break."

"Hah! Fair enough."

"So...?"

The Keeper chuckled and shook her head, a few more wisps of white hair falling into her face as they escaped her braid.

"It is nothing. Tell me, what is your assessment of this girl? I know it was Brilwyn who ultimately convinced you to bring her here. You don't call her by her name as easily as he does, and you have known her for the same amount of time that he has."

"One could never say that you aren't imperceptive, Keeper."

"You have my thanks, but that doesn't answer my question."

"If you must know, I think of her as being almost identical to Raiana when we first arrived; while I have no doubt that Fen'falon has far more power at her fingertips than Raiana does, she is in a very similar situation of having just enough control for the amount of magic she thinks she has, but not nearly enough should some unknown... variable cause her magic to surge."

"So she's another loose cannon."

"Or, a potential life-saver in more than one sense. She has to have picked up on a variety of skills, living a nomadic life with only her family in whatever form it was, and she has already saved my and Brilwyn's life."

"Hm. I suppose. You may tell Brilwyn that Fen'falon will be staying with us for the foreseeable future."

Malora blinked owlishly. "You didn't take long to consider that."

The Keeper chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Despite what Taheli, Yevrand and their like might think, I am not being irreverent towards our culture. It's like the shemlen we trade with; you cannot judge a whole people based upon the actions of a few. Similarly, I will not judge Fen'Falon and her wolf for the similarities between them and the Dread Wolf."

Malora could only nod in response, a smile slowly blooming onto her face. The Keeper had to be a fair and open-minded person to have a clan as unique as the Lavellan clan was. Her response wasn't surprising, but she admired the Keeper for it nonetheless.

"Understood. Unless you have anything you require of me personally, I'll take my leave."

"Nothing more, no, unless you intend to miss our game of chess later this week."

Malora chuckled and shook her head. "Hardly. I have no doubt that looking forward to it will get me through the inevitable arguments I will have to quell in the days to come."

The Keeper gave her own wry smile, and it was halfway a grimace, as if she had only then realized that she would have to do the same.

"I suppose it'll be a bright point in both our lives, then. Dareth shiral, da'len."

"Dareth shiral."

With that and a smile on her face that would not leave, Malora did not half-skip out of the Keeper's tent, and the Keeper absolutely did not chuckle at her departure. She wasted no time in crossing the short distance to Brilwyn's tent, and slipped inside using the shuffle of her feet to announce her presence.

Brilwyn looked up at her arrival, wavy brown hair falling into hopeful eyes as he shifted. She could see The Wolf out of the corner of her eye, but regardless of whether she knew of Malora's arrival due to scent or sound, she didn't growl or otherwise object to her sudden arrival.

Which was good, relatively speaking. If The Wolf knew that she could trust Malora and Brilwyn at the very least, that was two more people who could potentially talk her down from a bad situation. That was a very important thing to have for a creature with Very Sharp Teeth.

Malora shook her head to dispel the inevitable cycle of threat assessment that dogged her mind (now wasn't that an apt phrase?) and allowed the smile on her face to grow brighter for Brilwyn.

"The Keeper will let her stay."

Brilwyn rather comically (and predictably) fell out of his perch, landing with a muted 'thud' on the dirt floor as he did his best impression of a bundle of sticks. 

"Really?"

"Really."

"Hah! Take THAT-"

"Hush, now. You'll wake her."

"Ah, bugger, you're right."

"She's sleeping quite soundly."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Yes, but as we found her asleep, I worry if she's gotten sick."

"Hm. I can always try and get Hathan to take a look at her. He likes me well enough."

"He likes your bad jokes, which is not nearly well enough. Let her rest; she's bound to have her share of excitement soon enough. At any rate, she may burn through it on her own."

Though the two that had brought her here didn't know she had awoken, Fen'falon smiled into the scruff of The Wolf, the last vestiges of her greatest fear lifting from her shoulders. Though Fen'falon wanted more than anything to tell Malora thank you, to tell her that she'd heard her stand up to the clan's hahren in her defense, she was tired, and it was nice to listen to noise for once. And though her stomach sank at the prospect of having to fight for a place in this unfamiliar, all but alien world of people and families and permanent placements, she could feel restlessness coiling in her heart and soul, demanding she do so with as much determination as she could muster.

As all children do, Fen'falon wanted to leave her mark, to shape even a small part of reality according to her ideals. And though she couldn't have possibly known so, that day marked the start of her journey to shape the entirety of Thedas, to alter the course of history.

Naturally, she slept through most of it.


	6. Chapter Four: Eight Months of First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life looks up for Fen'falon, until it swoops back down on inky black feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY remember when I said I was going to get this out quickly? There is a lovely little thing called finals that completely screwed that over. In addition, this chapter just,,, kept fighting me. I've made my peace with it and we're moving on now, because screw laboring over exposition for several months :/
> 
> That said, enjoy! The next one's going to be a doozy. I'm off for break, so maybe we'll have another chapter before the end of the month :0

Here, my faithful listeners, is where we pick up the pace of the story. It took quite a bit of time to get to this point, of course, but we don't need to visit every day of Fen'falon's life in order to understand what made her the person she is.

Come, I'll show you what's important. We must first start with the family she found herself with, and all the relationships that come with it.

~*~

_"Raiana, who's the new kid hiding behind Malora?"_

_"Her name's Fen'falon and-"_

_"She has a wolf! Why does she have a wolf?"_

_"Alador, what have I told you about interrupting?"_

_"That I shouldn't do it, but why does she have a wolf?"_

_"Tch, so stubborn. To answer your question, that wolf raised her as your mother and father did."_

_"That's weird. Ioll! Getheth! Come check this out!"_

_"What do you want, Alador?"_

_"Creators help me, if you're going to do that stupid trick with the grass again-"_

_"No, check out the new kid; she has a wolf!"_

_"We saw them yesterday, Alador, you're the one who slept through it."_

_"Is she gonna come say hi, or what?"_

_A chuckle from Raiana. "Maybe if you three would stop talking about her like she can't hear you, she will."_

_"Nuh-uh! I don't want her to--mum says Hahren Taheli says she's cursed and her wolf's gonna eat us!"_

_"Now why would he say that?"_

_"'Cos of the Dread Wolf, obviously. I'm not talking to her!"_

_"Alador..."_

_"Well if he's not, I'm not going to either."_

_"Getheth!"_

_"You boys are dumb. I wanna pet the wolf!"_

_"Ioll don-"_

_Raiana's attention was taken away from Ioll's quickly fleeing form by someone tugging on her sleeve. Looking down, she amended that statement to two someones: Vinniena and Miriss._

_"Vinniena wants to know why Fen'falon looks scared and lonely," Miriss said._

_Their narrow eyes were more wary than the doe-eyed stare of their empathetic sister, so like Malora and her when they had been younger themselves. Raiana adored both of them for the fact._

_Speaking of Malora, Raiana noticed that she was tempering Ioll’s enthusiasm. Getheth and Alador were slowly creeping their ways over to Fen’falon to say hello as well, so she could afford to answer Miriss._

_"Wouldn't you be scared and lonely if you were in a new clan with Vinniena as the only person you knew? She doesn’t even have her own Athelet, Feytha, and Dirithen.”_

_Miriss nodded slowly, the furrow in her brow lessening as they understood. They began to tug Vinniena towards the rest of their little group to say hello, but their sister had other ideas. She dug her feet into the ground and pried her arm loose, ignoring Miriss' questioning cries as her small fists pushed blonde hair out of her blue-green eyes._

_[[She likes quiet, like me. Will she let me and Ionowen teach her how to talk with her hands?]]_

_Raiana tilted her head curiously. "Why do you think she'd want to do that?"_

_Vinniena's hands moved quickly, almost fervently to point at her eyes before signing again._

_[[Sad eyes. Tired eyes. My kind of tired.]]_

_The three of them turned to look at Fen'falon, whose hands were balled into fists despite her shaky smile. Her eyes kept darting back to the tent she had just recently emerged from as Alador, Getheth, and Ioll bombarded her with questions she answered in short, hoarse statements._

_Malora noticed this, and kept opening her mouth as if to say something. Every time she did so, Fen'falon would tug on her shirt, and Malora would close her mouth once more._

_Fen'falon's voice was low, and it rasped as if smoke were scraping her throat. Raiana wondered how much speaking the girl must have done over the years, with only a wolf- who were creatures that spoke almost entirely through body language- for company._

_She was brave, this one, and if not brave, then too stubborn and prideful to let anyone know that she wasn't, much like the creature that raised her. Vinniena's kind of tired, indeed; actions almost always spoke louder than words. Miriss seemed thoughtful, Vinniena seemed hopeful, and it finally seemed as if Fen'falon had answered all the questions posed to her by the older children, who were now chasing each other around the camp._

_"Why don't you go get Ionowen and ask. I'm sure she'd love to help you come up with a name sign for Fen’falon, even if she doesn’t want to be taught.”_

_Raiana watched joy flicker like fireflies into Vinniena's eyes, then saw Miriss' almost reluctant smile when they noticed it as well. The two siblings exchanged a mischievous glance and all but bounded off to find Ionowen._

_She watched Malora show Fen'falon around the camp, taking her first to Athelet and Sovir's workshop. The former wiped sweat from their brow and set their half-finished ironbark breastplate aside, smiling as they talked in words too soft for Raiana to hear. Sovir, for his part, seemed as if he were trying to shrink back from the wolf at the girl's heels while simultaneously doing his best to appear as if he wasn't afraid. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she watched their conversation continue, a curious tilt to Fen'falon's head. As far as Raiana could tell, she was asking many, many questions._

_The girl would do just fine here._

~*~

Except she didn’t, not really. 

She had friends, certainly, but their kind voices very nearly were drowned out by those who saw her as little more than a wary curiosity, and those ambivalent voices all but fell under the weight of the fewer who outright disliked her.

For the sake of knowing the voices present in the rest of Fen’falon’s memory, let us peruse those first impressions she had.

There were seven warriors in the clan, excluding the young hopefuls still being taught by Taheli: Stoic Malora, ever like her mother in countenance and her sister in reassurance; chipper Valowynn, always ready with a story; steadfast Ilras, whose age brought wisdom and whose passion for battle was rivaled only by his wife’s passion for life; Junrith, who she knew little of save that his wide eyes and pouting lips would better befit a fish (and whose hair seemed like a bird’s nest); sour Dirithen, who despite his prickly nature was one to sit with her silently at the campfire during watch hours and nurse old wounds (and who had a fondness for the Antivan brandy she’d stolen from a passing caravan); and Nayi, a treasure unto herself.

Chiseled Nayi was a beauty better admired from afar, when ebony skin glistened with sweat and shone like water upon river rocks during training exercises. She had a wicked sense of humor that was better suited for the camaraderie of her fellow soldiers than a touch-averse child, but that didn’t stop her from admiring her fluid lethality in both physical form and verbal grace. Vinniena and Miriss laughed at how often they had to shake the stars from her eyes when Nayi took off her armor.

All but Valowynn and Malora (and Nayi, who Fen’falon steadfastly refused to hear her opinions of her) avoided her, not with the malice of Yevrand or Taheli, but with the caution of a hunter sneaking past a bear cave.

They didn’t know what to make of her and the wolf that dogged her steps. To them, she was a tempered storm, one poor dear from cracking and unleashing her fury upon them. Valowynn asked after her past and things better left buried, and while Fen’falon wanted to resent her for it, Valowyn was so cheerfully honest about everything that she was loathe to crush that cheer. That was how she found herself making a less bruised version of herself, hiding behind well-placed jokes in a hoarse, dry voice. She knew that making friends with Valowynn meant that she at least made peace with the (most of the) rest of clan Lavellan, so that’s precisely what she did.

It helped that Valowynn and Malora were always willing to spar with her with the same intensity they did their own warriors. While she could never hope to match a warrior in single combat, she could put up a decent enough fight should she ever find herself without magic. In return, the warriors (many of who didn’t so much resent mages as think them too reliant on their magic) had a tentative sort of understanding with her. There was never anything comfortable, and there was little trust to be found, but it was tolerable.

Tolerable, and very lonely.

Malora, ever the stoic warrior, stepped into the role of her mother and father: a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen, and a kind voice to either tell her stories until she fell asleep, or sternly remind her of her duty to the clan. Between her and Brilwyn, she almost didn’t know what she had left behind.

Almost.

The hunters were six in number, and much less united in their beliefs and personalities. With The Warriors (capital letters for a cohesive unit), she could typically follow a script in her interactions and come out unscathed. 

Not so with the hunters (no capitals, scattered letters across the wind).

Wary Alarian would nod, but seldom smile at her. Reverent Yevrand spat curses at her, and would kick The Wolf if he were any more zealous in his beliefs. Only hahren Taheli rivaled him for the vitriol they spewed towards her. Battle-worn Devetriel didn’t trust her, but she had been raised to be civil, polite even. Her joy at all the small things life had to offer was a delightful respite from the aloofness many of her clanmates affected. Silent Shaellan was soft-spoken Cryus the halla-keeper’s partner, and the two of them were as a pair of owls, the silent sentinels of the camp’s borders.

Llorel was married to Taheli. Fen’falon had no idea what she saw in the grumpy old bastard--she was entirely too kind in comparison to him, always quick to spare her a friendly story or joke. Though she was old and gray, she glittered with an inner peace Fen’falon could only aspire to. Her one regret was that being the older woman’s friend couldn’t be a possibility, what with her husband being a constant companion.

Then there was fox-like Brilwyn, a mischievous sort she was glad to call brother-like. He was never shy to call her the little sister he’d never had, and was almost always yelling at Taheli for being “a narrow-minded, twitchy old man”. He was brash, impulsive, devilishly charming, and in another world where things were significantly different, she could see herself falling in love with him. Malora had that claim, though, even if neither of the two realized it really, and she much preferred having a sibling again. 

The Keeper may not have always agreed with Brilwyn’s methods, but she could hardly fault the results: food for the clan, with enough furs and various trophies left over for trade with the shemlen that they could all live comfortably, even if winter was fast on the rise.

Athelet and Sovir, the two artisans of their clan, were partly to thank for that. Their talent with ironbark was especially notable, and while they very seldom traded it with the shemlen, many of their finest display pieces were of the material, which drew the eye to other goods. Athelet was best described as scatterbrained--they were always willing to teach Fen’falon bits of things, but their genius was shadowed by their inability to remember anything longer than five minutes. Sovir was the exact opposite, focusing on details and only details until he shut himself out of the world around him.

This had led to more than one instance of Fen’falon scaring the daylights out of him when she and The Wolf came to watch what he was doing. Despite the little cuts and bruises that they caused that Sovir inevitably had to get treated, they were all… civil, if not quite friendly.

It did help that she was the only child in the clan with an interest in anything other than swordplay or archery for the time being.  
Speaking of, the three healers were Hathan, Feytha, and Elanna. Hathan was the unofficial uncle to everyone in the clan, cheerful and stern by turn, jovial almost always. Fen’falon couldn’t see what he saw in Yevrand, but she suspected it had something to do with the latter’s rare sense of humor and how it caused Hathan to snort with laughter that traveled across the camp.

Feytha had wildly curling hair and an exuberance to match--she and Devetriel got along quite well as a result. Fen’falon loved to listen into their conversations, bright and bubbling and boistrous. 

Elanna had freckles like stars on her face, and was the only other person to have seen Fen’falon cry besides Malora and Brilwyn. That same incident was responsible for her fear and loathing of Yevrand, and most men in general. Too many of them tended to violence like a bitter garden, nourishing thorns and brambles with a sense of superiority that created rot for fertilizer.

Such thoughts were not what she preferred to linger on in those earlier times. She’d had enough despair in her formative years to last her a lifetime, and though she couldn’t know that her future would eclipse that weight, she did her best to hold on to the quiet places of calm darkness against cacophonous light.  
Vinniena and Miriss were the only friends she had among the children in the clan. The rest were either too young to do more than babble, or they were Ioll, Getheth, and Alador. She called them the Terrible Trio for a reason, really.

(They called them that--Miriss and Vinniena had come up with the term. It stuck after the three of them put rashvine under Fen’falon’s blanket and she’d narrowly avoided the ensuing painful rash.) 

(They’d gotten creative with some mushrooms as revenge. Brilwyn’s idea, that.)

Vinniena didn’t like to speak, and that was just fine by all of them. Miriss was soft-spoken and kept their emotions close to their chest, not terribly unlike her. They seldom reacted to the Terrible Trio’s attempts at teasing, and that only further alienated the three of them from… well, the three of them, which suited all of them just fine.

It was through Vinniena that Fen’falon learned to talk with her hands. It was also through Vinniena that Fen’falon met Ionowen, the Keeper’s First.  
Meeting Ionowen was how she became the Keeper’s Second, if unofficially.

It went a little like this some spring afternoon, if I recall the translation correctly:

~*~

_[[I am Wolf Friend]]_

_Gray eyes, pensive, and sharp, like her shaved hair. [[I know this. Why are you here?]]_

_[[Vinniena told me you taught her… this?]] Uncertain hands quivered in the air, folding into unfamiliar shapes._

_A short nod, intensity never fading. [[I did. What of it?]]_

_A pause, fingers twitching as both she and they struggled to recall the words they needed._

_[[What… more you teach?]]_

_[[Can I teach? That depends.]]_

_[[On?]]_

_[[You.]]_

_[[About me what?]]_

_[[Have you spoken to Hahren Grumpy?]]_

_[[Hahren Grumpy?]]_

_[[A sign that suits him. He handles you young things.]]_

_[[Yes. I’m not so young anymore.]]_

_[[Oh?]]_

_[[Depends on what year it is…]]_

_[[The twenty… fifth, I think.]]_

_[[I have fifteen years, then.]]_

_There was nothing but silence from hands and the sounds of the clan living peacefully with birdsong surrounding them. This lasted for some time, and Fen’falon found her thoughts wandering. Ionowen had heard from Malora and Brilwyn_

_[[How much do you know of our people?]]_

_Gold-green eyes glittered with amusement, recalling a similar exchange with Malora half a year ago. [[I can recite most of the tales ‘Hahren Grumpy’ shares with the others from memory. My father was… is enthusiasm about everything.]]_

_[[But he didn’t teach you magic?]]_

_[[The basics and some more. He was a First. The rest, I taught myself.]]_

_Sharp gray eyes meeting wary gold-green, a type of contact that was difficult for her, signs of aggression that she didn’t like at all-_

_[[I will speak with the Keeper. Dangerous to let curiosity roam.]]_

_Shock and awe, caution and hope, glittering in yellow-green eyes. Those eyes were so like the wolf that constantly followed this child, and Ionowen was startled to find herself cheerful at the thought._

_It was almost definitely due to the thought of making Taheli livid, and not the fact Fen’falon rarely looked anything other than ready to snarl._

_[[Thank you, Sharp Eyes]]_

_[[ You are welcome. Thank you for the name, I rather like it.]]_

~*~

Through Ionowen, Fen’falon learned more of the Fade and how to control her connection to it. It was similar to taking scraps of paper from a notebook out of order and assembling it together bit by bit, but it was more knowledge than she had ever found in all her years wandering alone. She, Vinniena, and Miriss figured it out together, the latter two having no claim to magic but quick minds and different perspectives. In her dreams, she wandered, and in her waking hours, they wondered together.

They truly became friends this way, unshakable bonds forged with childhood innocence and the thrill of a common puzzle. With every bit of magic further controlled, the more the Terrible Trio stayed away, and the more they were left to watch in peace, three quiet souls absorbing the world around them. And while it was nothing official and far from being comfortable, she and Ionowen earned a respect and understanding of each other that often ended with sparks and bruises from the spells that went flying across the small glades they made their training spaces.

You’ll notice I have not mentioned the Keeper, who Fen'falon saw little of in that first part of her life. To her, the Keeper was as approachable as a stormcloud, bright and dazzling and ferocious in her wisdom of the world. She thought she knew too little to approach what was to her a force of nature.

Nor have I mentioned Fen'falon's thoughts on Raiana, Malora's sister, who watched her as a girl with sad eyes overwhelmed by children she would grow to dislike the narrowmindedness of.

Some three short nights after her arrival, Fen'falon overheard a conversation that only the night sky should have been privy to between those two sisters. She understood and sympathized with Raiana had done to her clan, but the echos of her own past crashed against the mask she had so carefully constructed. Rather than choose to confront this as well as herself, Fen'falon avoided her.

For the first eight months of her stay with clan Lavellan, Fen’Falon and The Wolf were happy, one entity half-settled in a swarm of puzzle pieces with half-matching edges. The both of them trained, the both of them fought against the bitter, careful cruelty that never quite made public knowledge, and the both of them found a home they had been sorely lacking since they had each left theirs.

For the first eight months of her stay with clan Lavellan, that one conversation ill-met by moonlight sent spiderweb cracks shuddering through her inner truth.

Then came a handful of conversations and confrontations where Fen'falon said what should have been left implied in plausible deniability in regards to Raiana. Sharp comments where there should have been no reaction, flippance where there should have been amusement.

Then came concern, from Malora and Brilwyn and Ionowen, and the determination to help from Vinniena and Miriss. They knew she was hiding something, several somethings, and did not want to share. They suspected, but did not know, not yet.

Then came the change of seasons, and the need to move from forest-shrouded fields into the woodlands proper, and the journey further south, closer to where she had once called home.

Then came the raven she had almost forgotten about, carrying with it all the guilt and grief she had hidden from. He was cheered to see her, but she was not cheered to see him.

Then came a letter full of blame from her sister Aishwynn, and a parting farewell as acrid as the Hissing Wastes.

“They are alive, no thanks to you, Thelras.”

Then came a name that hurt her more than any blade could. With it, came the age-old rule of of life and storytelling:

Things must always get worse before they get better.


	7. Chapter Five: Sixteen Years of Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen years of second chances and reinvention, and still, the world isn't done with tempering her in fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We may have another chapter at the end of the month", I said, back in December.
> 
> Well, I guess I never specified what month, right?
> 
> It's nearing two in the morning, so rest assured that if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes, I'll come back and fix them after classes tomorrow. Probably.
> 
> Hello new faces, welcome back old faces! Thanks for stopping by, and if you've read all 25,000 words (wow) of this massively self-indulgent piece of writing for my Inquisitor, then I salute you!
> 
> Inspiration for this chapter comes from 'Wrong', by Depeche Mode, as well as 'Blood Moon' by Saint Sister, and 'Rebel Rebel' by David Bowie, all of which are on Fen'Falon's playlist, which you can find on spotify by searching her name, if that's your thing!

She had never been honest about anything. Not her age of eighteen years, out of a desire to avoid ridicule regarding her general social ineptitude, not about her proficiency with magic, which matched her father's at even this young age, and especially not about her missing years or the family she'd left behind. It was as battered and broken as any of those among their clan who hadn't been born into it- it was no secret that clan Lavellan was one for the misfits, the rebels, and the unorthodox of all kinds.

She'd thought she'd been the one to break her family at first. How could she not have? It was her hands that had cast the ritual to change, her blood she had spilled to become herself thanks to a desire demon that called herself a spirit of change.  
For all she knew, the entity spoke the truth. She had only called it a demon because her father had said as such, and warned her against their influences, as the tendency towards vulnerability ran in their family.

She had been vulnerable, yes, but she had strong first. It was determination, not desperation, that had driven her to battle demon after demon when they refused to bow to her terms. She had armed with only her father's knowledge and her inherent truths as she fought tooth and nail to find what she sought in the Fade.

She remembered glimpses of that night like charcoal drawings smudged by careless hands. 

_“My, aren't we the ferocious beast?”_

_She spun around, blood that wasn't blood tasting like coins in her mouth as she snarled and raised her hands out before her, energy crackling to life._

_She hesitated only because this spirit was… decidedly not provocative in its dress. Different in design, different in function- her mother said as such of plants, it had to apply for other things too, right?_

_She spat on the ground and tried to assess this new, formless thing that couldn't decide what they wanted to be. Here and there, she saw glimpses of familiar faces, creatures she had seen before, even statues and features of the ancient trees she walked under._

_“You are different.”_

_“As are you, fierce warrior. No mage enters the Fade merely to do battle with demons- there are few who have the conviction and strength to wage war against one, let alone the…”_

_“Eight.”_

_“The eight you have temporarily waylaid.”_

_The entity (for more and more she was beginning to think this was something very few had encountered, and thus was in a category of their own making) tilted their head, insofar as it had one while currently resembling a collection of river stones and the water running over them, sharp curiosity glinting like sunlight through their water._

_“What do you seek that they could not give you? They are Desires, are they not?”_

_She planted her feet and stared up at the mass of gnarled branches reaching for her with fascination creeping along vines through the air. Though she was afraid in the face of this incomprehensible metamorphosis, she looked down her nose as if they were equals, so certain was she in herself._

_“I want what is already true, imperfectly realized.”_

_Whatever they had been expecting, it wasn't that. Then, with a realization that shattered in the form of an ancient mosaic scattering its pieces, the entity laughed and folded in on itself, falling from an infinite height until she stood before herself, arms outstretched in a grand bow._

_That was her. Her body as it was meant to be, not the one she wore._

_“Is this what you seek? Yourself, you as you are?”_

_Being the smartass that she was, Fen’falon said, “Is that not what everyone seeks?”_

_The entity regarded her a cruel smirk and narrowed eyes she knew all too well, having worn them herself when her teasing with Aishwynn had gone too far._

_“You are both innocent enough to ask honestly and wise enough to suspect that it is not the case. Most will seek only what they think to make them happy, no?”_

She had no response for that, other than to thank the entity, the 'spirit of change', for the knowledge it had given her.

She had still left home on her fourteenth birthday, that much was true, but she had taken her father's staff by force. 

_“What have you done, Thelras?”_

_“That is not my name, Papa.”_

_“That doesn’t matter--whose blood is that? Is that yours?”_

_“Sure.” It was not, but the person she had taken it from knew what he was getting into. If she was being perfectly honest, he seemed as if he rather enjoyed it, which was decidedly not what she wanted to think about it._

_Soundless voices, speechless expressions, shaking hands, all gusted on a furious sigh._

_“Why? In the name of the Creators, why would you ask for something as twisted as that?”_

_“I am not **twisted** , Papa.”_

_“That’s not what I said, and you know it.”_

_“No, but what is twisted about asking for my proper body?”_

_“You are a boy, Thelras.”_

_“Not according to the spirits in the Fade, a reflection of my mind, as you taught me.”_

_“Physicality would dictate other-”_

_“To the Void with your physicality! My heart and mind cry out against it--can you not understand how deeply I’m trapped? It’s not that difficult to understand! I-”_

_“Thelras? Camras? Is everything all right?”_

_“No, dear. Our wonderfully foolish son cannot seem to comprehend why using a demon to change his body was reckless and dangerous.”_

_“Thelras!”_

_“All I wanted was to feel right! Why does it disgust you so?”_

_“You’re going against the natural order of things.”_

_“No, mum, I’m fixing a mistake.”_

_“You are not a mistake!”_

_“No, I’m not, that’s what I’ve been trying to say! But dear old da-”_

_“You are not a mistake, but what you have done is. A demon, blood magic, really?”_

_“How can you both be so blind? Why can’t you simply accept that I’m happier like this?”_

_“Because it’s wrong, Thelras! You were born a boy--mistakes like that don’t just simply happen!”_

_“I am standing right here, father, and I am telling you that there was a mistake, and I fixed it, end of story.”_

_They turned to whisper, as if she couldn’t hear them._

_“Camras, can you fix him?”_

_“I.. don’t know. I can try.”_

_“Do it, fix him--he doesn’t know what he’s done, maybe you can reverse the deal he made. Fix our son, and maybe we won’t have an abomination on our hands.”_

_Rage, bubbling, boiling under the surface of her skin--she was not wrong, she was finally, finally herself. She would not let her father’s staff and outstretched hand take this from her._

_“I do **NOT** need fixing.”_

_Screams, curling, blackened flesh that she couldn’t see past the tears in her eyes._

_“I am **NOT** a him”_

_Sparks flying, biting into skin that she couldn’t see past the smoke in the air._

_“I am **NOT** an abomination.”_

_She wrenched the staff that would destroy her out of her father’s hands and screamed her final blow to the sky, heartache in every word._

_“And I am **NOT. Your. Son.”**_

_They had never understood before, had never let her talk to them about this. She had hoped that when she changed that they would understand but they didn’t and they never even tried._

_The beam fell from the ceiling and she strode past the sound of Aishwynn screaming in fear and horror._

_“Thelras! What have you done? Thelras!”_

_That was not her name. That was not who she was. Not Aishywnn’s brother, not the son that listened attentively to her father’s stories, not the child that listened to their mother’s lullabyes._

_She was alone, but she was finally herself. That was all that mattered._

Clan Lavellan listened to her story with attentive eyes that gave no secrets. Even Malora, Brilwyn, Vinnienna, Raiana and Ionowen, her closest friends, were rendered mute, unable to respond to her shaking gestures. Slowly, though, as she spoke of everything but her lost year (years? She couldn’t remember) in sharp clarity, and those lost years in half-measures marked by the cruel hands of others, the eyes of all before her softened their judgement. Even Taheli, who had gone so far out of his way to make her miserable, looked contemplative, almost chastened.

[[I don’t understand,]] she signed to Miriss as she scratched The Wolf behind her ears, [[Why do they look kind now? They knew I had lost my family. What changed?]]

“Before, we thought you’d left on purpose. None of us left our families on purpose, so I think a lot of them resented you for that. Even if we admired you for other reasons, how could you turn your back on that love when most of us never knew it before we came here?”

Miriss shredded blades of grass between their fingers when they were nervous or thoughtful.

“All you’d wanted was to be yourself, and to be loved for that self. We all get it.”  
While Fen’falon wanted to say something insightful, she was caught up by a particular string of words that Miriss had said, a smile curling on her lips.

[[You admire me?]]

“What’s not to admire? You fight like a wolf, with a wolf, no less. Despite our superstitions, they are beasts to be proud of. You can hold your own against any of the warriors in the clan, despite not being particularly suited to it-”

Miriss only ever rambled when they were nervous. It was adorable, really, though she would never say as such for fear of provoking a scowl. The gentle kiss she placed atop their head and the pat on the shoulder that followed seemed only natural after that.

The rest of the clan grew… not necessarily more friendly in the later years, but between her incessant wanderings far from the camp, with only The Wolf and occasionally the Keeper for company and her newfound honesty, all of them at least tolerated her. Even Taheli and his family softened their blows.

She trained with Ionowen and the Keeper, and still wandered, wondered with Vinnienna and Miriss. Feytha proved to be an unexpected source of guidance, her bubbly cheer a cure for wounds in the soul and her gentle hands quick to remedy the occasional cut, scrape, or broken bone that resulted from her explorations.

And so, for five years, it seemed as if her life wouldn’t follow that age-old rule of storytelling, save for the brutality of her actions in the form of a letter. She and Miriss became… involved, much to the quiet joy of Malora and the amusement of Brilwyn, who found every chance to tease the both of them, especially if he found them during a tender moment after practice--unsurprisingly, her protective nature meant that she followed in a warrior’s footsteps, which meant the two of them sparred a fair bit.

But that is hardly relevant, save to know that Fen’falon was truly happy for those five years, no longer pretending at happiness.

And then came the Blight, as with many other stories in Thedas.

They had wandered closer to Fereldan at exactly the wrong time. It would be what eventually led to them staying in the Free Marches, really.  
Ostagar fell, then Lothering.

Then Camras and Nayamihe, and very nearly Aishwynn. 

Then Taheli, and very nearly Getheth, and Alador, the poor fools.

Five years of happiness, undone in the span of five days, the last events of which were just hours before the Hero of Fereldan slew the Archdemon. So close, and yet so far.

The first day, they arrived in Fereldan, having just crossed through the Frostbacks. They did not go to Haven this time, instead following the Imperial highway as it appeared, just on their horizon, aravels rolling over plains to mountains and then to forest.

The second day, they made camp on the shore of Lake Calenhad, Kinloch Hold faintly in the distance. Fen’falon remembered how she and her parents had traveled near this way often, the lake a source of food and easy navigation in the winter months, so long as they were careful to avoid being seen. Out of a wild sort of hope of laying her past to rest, she asked the Keeper if they could keep an eye out for her former family.

Istimaethoriel, knowing well how unhealed heartache could fester, gave her promise to do as such. On the third day, they passed by the Calenhad docks, well on their way past Crestwood and towards the Brecilian Forest, where Zathrian’s clan resided. The Keeper had thought to check in with her old friend, unaware that he had given his life to end the curse on the forest.

The fourth day was the last without misery, the air filled with Yevrand’s rare laughter and even Taheli’s grumpy nature lifted by the pride that comes with a vallaslin ceremony. Miriss and Ioll had each received theirs, the former choosing to wear Falon’din’s markings, and the latter choosing Andruil’s, as appropriate for the hunter she’d become.

There had been dancing and a feast, and all were eager to share stories. Taheli had even asked Fen’falon to recite some of the poetry her father had taught her, claiming in his half-complimentary way that her raspy voice “wasn’t entirely awful with how hypnotizing it could be”.

In the morning, Alador and Getheth were gone, leaving half the clan in a state of panic and disarray, and leaving the other half to try and calm them down.  
Only Fen’falon and Miriss noticed the single half-scuffed footprint in the mud near Taheli’s family tent, where he, Llorel, Nayi, Sovir, and Alador all stayed. There was a similar set by Cryus and Shaellen’s tent, where Getheth spent much of his time, as Elanna spend her time with the healers and Junrith with his crafts.

They left the camp hoping to find their foolish peers, knowing all too well their arrogant tempers led them to get into trouble quite often.

They found them quickly, as did Taheli, who had watched them leave with nary a word.

Pine branches whipped past all of them as they ran towards the sounds of fighting in the distance.

Trees broke into a small glade like teeth into a smile, and Fen’falon’s world fell apart in an instance.

Camras and Nayamihe, brave, stubborn lovers they, stood braced against a tree, magic flying from their fingertips in a way she hadn’t seen since she was small: Nayamihe, in particular, had always preferred the bow she had been trained in using before her magic talents emerged.

Getheth and Alador stood side by side each other, daggers flashing like twin pairs of twin fangs, two snakes entwined in a deadly dance.

To their back stood Aishwynn, raining arrows upon all that drew near to her and the others in the clearing.

“Thelras!”

“Mum! Dad! Aishwynn! Hold on!”

“Grandfather!” came with “Hahren!”

“Hold on, da'len!” cried Taheli.

The clearing was full of darkspawn, the beasts only recognizable by their sheer horrificness, twisted beasts with nothing more to compare them to. All those elves joined in the fight, and for a time it seemed that all would live for the reunion to follow.

Then came the ogre, because Fen’falon could never have hope without it being crushed.

Up came one of the snaggle-toothed pines, and down went Camras and Nayamihe, trapped beneath bark and writhing monster alike, the ogre heedless of its brethren as it charged towards Getheth and Alador.

Fen’falon and Miriss cried out as one as Taheli only just shoved the two backwards and out of the way with a wave of concussive energy that sent the darkspawn surrounding them into the ground, heads collapsed and limbs twisted into knots.

Aishwynn turned almost a second too late, catching a gash from the ogre’s horns that sent her stumbling backwards. It was that, more than anything, that loosed the howl from Fen’falon’s lips, and to her aid came The Wolf and many of the friends that great, gray beast had made when she was not standing at Fen’Falon’s side.

Miriss’s sword gleamed like starlight, hacking at darkspawn with a voiceless grace as they fought their way to their clanmates’s sides. Getheth and Alador leapt to their feet quickly as Miriss bought them time, and helped their newfound companion--her sister-- to her feet.

All four of them fought as a pack of their own, aided by the wolves that knew the cry of one solitary elf as the cry of their own.

The wolves, The Wolf, and the wolf-friend, Fen’Falon descended on the ogre as it lifted Taheli in a crushing grip and bore down on the earth. Fen’falon didn’t have time to watch Taheli fall as she rode the walls of the Fade and leaped atop the foul, slavering beast, jamming her father’s staff into one of its eyes before it could slam her hahren into the ground.

The percussive beat of darkspawn falling all around her was eclipsed only by the final crescendo of the ogre meeting dust with a reverberating ‘boom!’ that echoed through the forest like a song. With every gout of flame and every barrier and glyph glowing into life around her, breathing new energy into her companions, she felt the call of blood in her ears, rushing, howling, screaming with the lust for carnage.

When the last of the darkspawn fell to her father’s staff beneath its chin and through its eye, she and her companions snarled the vicious, terrified smiles of those who had only just fought back death.

And then they each remembered Taheli, and Camras, and Nayamihe, silent amidst their celebrations.

And then they each worked to frantically move the tree atop the latter two, having no sight of the former.

And though their breath was wet and rasping behind closed eyes, Aishwynn and Fen’falon each put a hand on their shoulders and shook them gently, though it was only Aishwynn who spoke.

“Mum, dad? You can open your eyes, the fighting’s done. Thelras and his friends saved us all.”

Fen’falon bit her tongue against the wrong name, hoping against hope that one small, infinitesimal part of this universe would be kind to her chances at reuniting peacefully.

Their father opened his eyes, but their mother only smiled, a trickle of blood trailing from the corner of her mouth.

 _No. This isn’t fair,_ came the thought, You can’t leave me now, after everything! Where is the justice in that?

“Thel...ras?”

“I’m here, dad, mum. I’m… so, so sorry. I wish I had looked for you sooner.”

“Aish...wynn?”

“Yes, dad?”

“...Take care of her.” (A shiver of hope)

“Always.”

“Thel...ras?”

A sigh, a sliver of pain that was so, so terribly inappropriate for the moment.

“Yes?”

“You were right. Not our son.”

Clenched fists, clenched teeth against the rage, rage sparking in her heart--

“Daughters. Our beautiful daughters. Thank you… for letting us see you, one… last time.” Their mother's voice, fainter still, accompanied by a bittersweet chuckle from their father.

 _You cannot just die now, after finally understanding,_ Fen'falon wanted to say, _Don't leave me. I'm not ready to say goodbye to parents who love me. I don't know how to deal with that._

Aishwynn and Fen'falon didn’t have a moment to weep as Camras and Nayamihe breathed their last as one, for then Taheli called out, voice thin, reedy and clearly irritated with the turn of events.

“Fen’falon,” said he in the way one might say “mabari-shit”, beckoning her close amidst Getheth and Alador crouched by him, whatever final words between them already spoken.

She brushed the tears off her face and begrudgingly stood beside him, head tilted in a mockery of curiosity as she awaited one final dose of vitriol from him.

“My brother was killed by a wolf tamed by shemlen hunters. It was why I never liked you.”

She could only nod, bracing herself for the final blow. Instead, his sharp eyes turned soft, a gesture only half caused by the jagged wound in his side weeping blood and viscera through his fingertips.

“I regret wasting all that time not trusting you. You were nothing like that shemlen, and I hated that I couldn’t hate you too. For what it’s worth, you have my apologies.”

He slipped into unconsciousness then, the stubborn bastard, because he simply had to get the last word in. Years of belittlement, of jabs and cruelty that haunted her thoughts like circling vultures and--

And simply because everything had to happen all at once, all five of them still conscious and living heard the sound of footsteps and snarling.

More darkspawn. Brilliant.

“Getheth, Alador, Aishwynn. Can you… each take one of them to camp with you? The two of you aren’t meant for large battles and you’re wounded, Aishwynn. Miriss and I can hold them off long enough for you to warn the others. Aishwynn, the raven’s nearby, you can send him to me telling us where they’ve moved.”  
Though she could tell each of the three of them wanted to argue, they all knew it was a sounder course of action than any of them could come up with. Rather than waste time arguing, they each shot Fen’falon a glare that spoke of speaking later, of grieving later, and did as they were suggested.

When they’d fled the clearing and the sound of footsteps grew almost as loud as the smell of death in the air, Miriss turned to face her with a vicious smile and drew her in close for a desperate kiss she eagerly reciprocated.

Neither of them knew that they would survive this, that they had a purpose larger than dying surrounded by filth created by human arrogance. Still, they’d not enough pride between the two of them to think that they could survive as the Gray Wardens did.

Then came the second wave of a monstrous tide, snarling and gnashing their teeth as they beat weapons against their chests and laughed at the two small elves standing their ground in a clearing riddled with blood and grief.

Those were the last conscious moments of each of them, the rest of memory lost to a haze of wounds given and received, and of falling, screaming, stumbling towards survival. Flame and ice and lightning, life, and steel all flashed within that small clearing, impossibility waging war against impossibility.

And then they woke up, arms entwined in the healer’s tent, somehow untainted despite their wounds. She and Miriss locked eyes and laughed, weeping through their joy, the simple guilty joy of being alive and leaving the dead behind.

For Camras and Nayamihe, father and mother, stubborn lovers they, were dead, having fought their final battle to remain together, even in death.

For Taheli had died, the healers unable to do anything except give him enough time to say his farewells to his clan and family. Ionowen, for all her magic and theoretical ability to aid, was a warrior, not a healer, and had gone to rescue Fen’falon and Miriss when the other half of their group had returned.

She had been injured protecting Malora, Brilwyn, Feytha, Athelet, and Dirithen, all five of whom had been focused on their respective charges to the exclusion of all other things, including the hurlock bolters hiding in the trees. She’d managed a barrier despite the two bolts that managed to stick themselves in her arm, buying all the time they needed to kill the remainder of the darkspawn and torch the bodies, Fen’Falon and Miriss fainting with exhaustion rather understandably.

With Taheli’s death and her having lost an arm due to the darkspawn taint that would have rapidly taken over her if not for her impromptu field amputation (and oh, the earful she’d gotten from Elanna as a result!), Ionowen asked that she step down from her role as the Keeper’s first, and recommended Fen’falon in her stead, citing a quick mind and a willingness to protect and guide.

It was that comment and the desire to remember her past in a positive light that brought Fen’falon to choose Mythal’s vallaslin as her own.

Mythal, the Great Protector. She’d protected Aishwynn and been protected in turn, had protected her family until she’d destroyed it (and had then protected herself), she’d protected The Wolf and been protected in turn, and finally had protected her clan, who had also protected and forgiven her in turn.  
It fit, this constant reminder of giving and receiving in a cycle.

Though there was misery in the air that night, and though she could not help but howl with nine years worth of rage, guilt, and sadness, there was a certain amount of relief.

Once more, she had shed the weight of things she cared for out of obligation, and once more, she threw herself into the future, carefully striking a balance between the desire to grow and the desire to remember where she’d come from.

They planted trees over Taheli, Camras, and Nayamihe that fifth night. All had sung Suledin, the one song they all knew by heart, the anthem of their people, for they would endure this, as they’d endured countless other losses.

Aishwynn left some few days after they celebrated the lives of those they had lost. It was for the best, really--she understood what Fen’falon had done to their parents, but the years after she’d burned both of them into hardly being able to move their legs or arms had been long and gruesome things, and there was precious little that could heal those wounds except time.

They made peace with death, with life, and with understanding the few similarities between them. It was enough for friendliness, if not quite the trust and love they’d once had.

As the Keeper’s First, she worked tirelessly to try and preserve what knowledge and lore they had, aiding Ionowen in teaching the newest arrivals to their clan- some city elves, some elves from other places whose trauma made holes in their memory- by telling her stories that she’d not heard from Taheli in many years. Istimaethoriel often found her asleep by candlelight in the tent she shared with Brilwyn, Malora, and Raiana during the day, and more often still shook her awake to join Miriss in their tent, knowing full well that her First, her brightest pupil, slept the best with another pair of arms to drive nightmares away.

And so life with the Lavellans went on well past the Blight, wandering far from shemlen politics save for the news brought by traders that all kept an eye on.  
They were brought stories of Isidore Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, queen to King Alistair as he ascended the throne. The women of the clan toasted her particularly loudly, knowing all too well the views of noblemen and entitled men.

After three years and Malora’s proposal and handfasting to Brilwyn (to the shock of no one except Brilwyn himself) came news of the First Battle of Kirkwall. It was then that the Keeper started keeping a more careful eye on the state of affairs in the shemlen world, particularly as they’d made the northern Free Marches their permanent home. Wycome was never too far, and if the Qunari felt pressed to attack there as well, there was no telling how their relations with their trading partners would be affected.

Change snowballed quickly after that. The Kirkwall mages rebelled, something that Fen’falon privately thought was an excellent development until the templars and mages began to wage war on each other, disrupting the entirety of Thedas and ensuring their constant need for travel to avoid conflict.  
Tempers were short in those days, brought by fear mixed with hope of what the future might bring. Still, there were good things to be found: the birth of a new halla, the granting of vallaslin to a new member of their group of misfits, Junrith crafting a particularly fine bit of armor, The Wolf playing tag with any number of the warriors during ‘training exercises’.

For all the good, they could each feel tension drawn taught and sharp like a wire. Once again, the world was at the mercy of the shemlen and their institutions waging wars. It was all they could do to pray to the Creators for safety, and to trust in their own skill even as they waged countless battles against mages and templars alike. They were lucky not to lose anyone, but there were plenty of scars earned by every member of the clan, be they physical or mental.

The night those first whispers of a Conclave to bring peace between the warring factions came, Fen’falon held Miriss in her arms and pressed gentle kisses into their hair as she’d done that first day of honesty. The Keeper had asked the two of them to go to the Conclave in secret, knowing full well that a meeting of this many powerful shemlen had the potential to affect all elves in all walks of life, not just the Dalish.

“Before we go to this Conclave, could you tattoo a vine of crystal grace on my neck?” They were Miriss's favorite flower, an admission she'd pulled out of them while they were both drunk, leading to her weaving a crown out of them and placing it on their head with a triumphant crowing sound that had woken up everyone in the camp.

“Your neck? That’ll sting something awful, and I’m not nearly as good at the whole thing as Junrith is.”

“Yes, but I want you to do it, and I want everyone to be able to see it, even if they don’t know what it means.”

“Only if you tattoo one of The Wolf’s pawprints on my shoulder to match the one on your chest, then. She’s as much you as you are, and much easier to represent physically.”

A cheerful ‘thump’ of a tail against the ground echoed the sentiment, causing both elves to scratch their canine companion behind the ear.

“Of course, vhenan,” she said with a smile.

“What brought all this on?” Miriss shifted to look her in the eyes, but she could only stare at the ceiling as she thought in silence for a short eternity.

“A lot of war, a lot of change. I’d like to keep a reminder of my favorite constants close by. If change separates us, they can keep me company with footstep and favorite flowers.”

“You know, for someone who says she hates romantic gestures, you sure are a big old sap.”

“Says the one who asked every single person what my favorite flower was, then had Junrith carve one out of the canine that The Wolf lost months ago.”

“In fairness, only Brilwyn remembered that you like embriums, and he only because you said so three years ago, so it’s not my fault I had to ask everyone.”

“But the tooth?”

“The Wolf is important to you, and you like to keep bits of your past with you, so I thought that-”

“I tease, vhenan. It was sweet. Don't fluster your words.”

The three of them left early that morning, ink fresh under their skin and the Keeper’s call of ‘dareth shiral’ a slice of comfort in the uncertain air.  
The Conclave was in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, many days away by foot, even though they ran when they could, The Wolf keeping a merry pace despite her old bones.

They slept by starlight, Miriss and she, writing letters back to Vinnienna filled with all the wonderful sights that they found, from old statues all but overrun by vine, to crumbling ruins of ancient walls, the sites of wars long since lost to the dust of memory in the Fade.

Starlight, burning bright, held no light to the explosion that shuddered the Conclave the day negotiations began to take place.

Fen’falon would remember sitting with Miriss’ violet eyes gleaming like gemstones in the dark, The Wolf a protective weight by her side as the three of them watched from a corner shrouded in the shadows cast by some heavy vase.

She would remember turning to point out certain figures she recognized from recent history books, such as Divine Justinia herself, one hand resting in The Wolf’s scruff, the other holding Miriss’s to her heart, trying to calm the racing pulse she could feel in their wrist. None of the three of them particularly liked crowded spaces unless they were woodlands.

She would not remember what came after for several hours, nor would she know the whole truth of things until she walked the land of dreams and once more came face-to-face with that same spirit of change she’d thought she’d left behind so many years ago.

For the single moment she could remember afterwards, there was nothing but green light pushing the taste of copper and ash into her mouth.

Then, there was darkness.

Then, there was light.


	8. Chapter Six: The Conclave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, "Area Woman Sets World Record for Internal Screaming"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Two updates in the same month :0
> 
> It only took seven chapters and twenty-five THOUSAND freaking words, but we're into the game now! Yay!...?
> 
> On a more serious note: to all of you out there who're joining me on this ride, be it for like 5 minutes before you run screaming because this is the exact opposite of what you've been looking for, or be it for every chapter because I've somehow managed to keep your interest for so many words, thank you! I honestly never thought I'd be sharing this with anyone other than myself, so even the tiniest bit of interest is wonderful to see.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the snarky!Fen. She will be a near-permanent fixture for the rest of the story :P

Skittering, skittering, the sound of formless whispers scratching, chasing themselves after her. There was something familiar in this darkness, half-touched and unseen. The ground was sturdy, ragged under her cheek. In the cotton-dry taste of her mouth lay copper coins, clanging and echoing with the sound of someone else-- no, something else kicking a rock to fall and tear itself apart in the distance.

Up. She had to get up, get moving away, away and up in a place where direction had no meaning.

There was a furious ringing in her ears, twitching, shuddering, breaking into life.

Green light and ash, flitting, filtering, flying through the air. She’d opened her eyes, eyes the same color, the same sort of disjointed and unfocused shade of green as this light-

_Focus,_ came the unbidden thought, in a voice only half like hers. There was something familiar in this green light, half-felt and unseen.

Smoke and ash and pain, choking, cloying, creeping. She’d been in a place like this before, had burned that place into being herself.

_Up, up. Focus. We are not safe--you are not safe._

She’d never much been one to argue with strange voices in the Fade. They tended to be truthful, so long as you took the nature of the voice into account, though it probably said a lot about her that it shouldn't, the fact she listened to the aforementioned strange voices in the Fade. Because demons and- and her thoughts were wandering again.

Her hand was burning, sparking with the same green light, sickly green light, green fire burning bright on her hand. In her hand lay a smiling gash, flickering in and out of existence as she stared at it.

Some distant part of her grew very, very concerned at the fact, as it really did hurt. The rest of her figured it’d be fine long enough for her to get out of this strange, whispering half-place--The Fade? Probably the Fade, nothing natural made no sense like this, there was a balance to the natural world, even if hidden.

Thoughts like fishes, gathering and scattering as she scowled and held the not-burning hand against the light on the hill, did it have to be so bright and human-shaped?

The light on the hill. Bright and human-shaped, something half-familiar, half-seen against green darkness and smoky light.

One step, two steps through the mire that built and built against the whispering, skittering, chittering behind her. Some deep, unknown music swelled as she climbed stairs cut into the light on the hill, little more than rushing, wind-like droning, chittering, skittering behind her.

Silk and gossamer opened behind that who glowed, reaching out a hand beseechingly.

Behind her, behind her, chittering, skittering behind her against the bright light on the hill, the green light, ash and smoke choking, cloying--she needed to get out.

Out, through silk and gossamer that had opened behind that who glowed, hands reaching out towards her, away from rubble and smoke.

Behind her, chittering, skittering, behind her, against the smoke.

She looked behind her and the fog in her mind broke, shattered like green light sparking into broken glass.

_'What is it with Thedas and gods-damned giant spiders?'_

For there were spiders, and plenty of them, all beady eyes half-bulging out of their faces, putrid and chitinous and horrid in their half-familiarity. It was enough to get her to think rationally about her situation, to try and decide the best course of action where she stood half-still for half a second.

She decided that the best course of action was to run like hell.

Besides, if the glowing, ominously silent, yet somewhat reassuring person made of light on the hill turned out to be a demon, she was dead regardless. She figured she might as well take the chance that the giant hole behind it was a way out of this mess, except the hill pulled against her feet, pushed weight into her tired bones, pushed her towards the spiders as she reached, reached for urgent, glowing hands-

And fell, face-first into more rubble, more ash tasting of copper.

Blood. Pounding in her ears, through her heart--she was alive, her heart was alive, her heart-

_Miriss. I have to find Miriss and The Wolf._

And with hardly time to grow disgruntled at the fact, she was smothered in darkness again.

Then there was iron, heavy around her hands but nothing, nothing against the white-hot agony sparking green across her left hand. It bit angrily into skin, curled talons and gouges into the bone and pulled at the muscle beneath.

She’d broken her nose against a rock in a stream running from shemlen in those half-forgotten years. She’d broken a leg falling out of a tree trying to make Vinnienna laugh. The Wolf had panicked and given her a smile on her cheek she had stuck her tongue through as it bled.

None of that hurt as much as the green fire in her hand, bright even against the sun she couldn’t see.

It was dark enough in this stone-and-iron-filled room that she allowed herself the luxury of a snarl and a half-choked growl that rumbled in her chest. 

It was that luxury that alerted her to the presence of guards in the room--the one, two before her shifted nervously at this feral thing in their midst. There were probably two behind her as well, for the sake of security, symmetry.

Balance. That much made more sense.

The door flew open, bringing forth two sets of determined footsteps that she didn’t pay attention to against two important facts.

One: She was a prisoner here. Given her race against the decided humanity of the guards, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility she’d escaped death once simply to have it bite at her heels again. She was a wounded deer in the eyes of these wolves if that were the case.

But then, she’d chosen her name for a reason. She’d play the part of prey, but she knew her worth and cunning as a predator, however cornered she truly was.

Secondly, the pain in her arm had temporarily stopped. So focused was she on the peculiarity that she was silent against the first woman’s implied threat, fascinated by the tingling numbness in her arm.

That half-soft focus cut and shattered like glass and stuck in her throat as the first pair of footsteps circled around to jab a finger towards her face.

“The conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead--except for you.”

Fen’falon kept her eyes forward. Her mouth spoke nothing save for silence as the first pair of footsteps (black hair, cut practically and out of the way, sharp eyes, blue eyes, a mixture of the girl from the alienage and Malora, dear Malora-) grabbed her hand as it sparked pain she paid no attention to this time as her face played the part of the wounded deer.

Her heart screamed as it bled, mortally wounded by words like arrows, swift to the mark.

_Everyone who attended is dead._

Miriss and The Wolf were dead. The tattoos on her neck and heart burned more than the brand on her hand in that moment, molten misery carving itself a scar that would never fade.

_ Everyone who attended is dead. _

A keening, dying wail loosed itself from the carcass of her broken heart, and only sheer force of will kept it perched beneath her chin, a frantic bird begging to be freed.

The second pair of footsteps pushed the first away and gave Fen’falon a name to call the first pair of them.

Cassandra. She couldn’t decide if the name suited the other woman or not--it seemed too elegant for someone as angry as Cassandra was.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

The other woman had red hair like hers. It was enough to pull Fen’falon a half-step from her misery, to answer as truthfully and honestly as she could--the shield on Cassandra’s back bore the mark of the Templar Order, and she didn’t think that boasting a familiarity with strange voices in the Fade would bode well for her chances at surviving the next day.

She mentioned running and the woman she’d reached out towards, the woman who’d reached out towards her.

Cassandra told the second pair of footsteps- Leliana, a fitting name for a fitting voice- to leave. 

“What… did happen?” 

Her voice didn’t feel like it should, the concern too flat, the intrigue too sharp. She needed to know, needed to know what terrible thing had torn her heart and soul from her, leaving this horrid hollowness that bled into everything.

“It… will be easier to show you.”

Approximately thirty seconds later, Fen’falon decided that was the understatement of the Age.

Then there was a half-explanation of the state of this barren world she’d found herself thrust into. Then there was thunder in the sky, throwing green lightning into everything that had once been familiar.

Then came the diagnoses: that of the world (dying), that of herself (also dying), and that of her role in all of this (the key to saving everything except what she’d cared about more than the breath in her lungs).

She couldn’t help but spit laughter like nails into the miserable cold.

“So I don’t really have a choice in this, do I?”

Cassandra frowned the sort of look that said Fen’falon had said something that went against a core tenant of her being. Taheli had gotten that look pretty much any time Fen’falon had even remotely gone near her, so it was safe to say that she knew it well, and didn't much care for it in the slightest.

“None of us has a choice.”

The hand on her back that pulled her to her feet caused a seething resentment in her heart whose only rival was the jeers of those she was marched past.

“They have decided your guilt,” said Cassandra forcefully, “They need it.”

She talked of mourning a religious leader, of losing a chance for peace between warring factions, of leaders brought together and dying, lashing out.

Throughout it all, Fen’falon wanted to laugh, to give in to the scream building, building like the fire that curled in her fingertips. Throughout it all, she wanted to lash out like the sky, as the sky, with lightning and snow cascading from those same curled fingers.

She was glad her hands were bound, or in that moment, she would have given in.

Her people’s gods had long since fallen silent, and while she didn’t think their stories were the whole truth, there was no denying the fact that they were gone. Her people’s culture was all but dead, a crippled thing limping, chasing the greatness they’d once had. Their language was all but dead, the writing that came with it nearly forgotten, and the stories told by it scattered to the winds.

Her people had been allies with those who followed Andraste. The shemlen forgot and ignored Shartan and his followers, among the first to take up arms with her. They had broken their promise to his people, her people, and they had died, lashed out, died, and worse.

They needed her _guilt?_

She needed her home back. She needed Miriss and The Wolf, she needed her heart and soul. In a sea of like-minded souls, in the sea of grief and bitter rage she leaned into as a boat to shore, how could she possibly hope to think beyond herself?

How could this Cassandra ask her to think beyond herself, to think beyond the legacy of thousands of years of pride and grief that had been carved into her when she was born of Elvhen parents, born of Elvhen magic, no less?

This was not her world. She cared nothing for it.

They needed _her_ guilt? She needed _her_ culture, _her_ heart, _her_ soul, _her_ world back. What was guilt to her sense of everything, to her _people's_ sense of everything?

Cassandra promised a trial and nothing more as she pointed the way to whatever new and too-bright place was waiting for her.

She jogged past a man who spoke the Chant and past another who spoke of the end of the world. Of the two, she was only inclined to believe in the latter.

Past fire, familiar in its orange warmth, and straight into white-hot pain, burning bright against the back of her eyes as she closed them, fell, and snarled again, more at the hands she didn’t want on her skin than at the pain clawing its way down her hand and into her arm like a rabid animal.

If she could flay her skin down to the bone and join the corpses she’d seen piled in wagons lining the path, she would. At least they were quiet--everything in this snow-covered hellscape scratched in her eardrums, which felt as if they were bleeding sound themselves.

Cassandra was talking, and despite the irritation she felt towards this woman, Fen’falon was grateful her voice was so distinctive against the rest of the white noise. At the very least, focusing on sorting noise into spoken sound, and spoken sound into word meant that she was too busy to grieve.

She had to sort unfamiliar sounds and force them into her own mouth; she knew better than to think that the sign language of her clan was as familiar in this world as it was back home.

Home. She’d never really felt like her clan was home until part of it had traveled with her. For all the time she’d spent with them, for all the friendliness, she had still been a friendly acquaintance to most, and family to perhaps three or four. She didn’t even know half of their names.

Gods, how she missed even that bare amount of friendliness now.

She forced the thought out of her mind before it could roost with the rest of her heartache and screams.

Information. Information was key to survival, the same as observation. Cassandra was very fond of telling her that she’d see for herself “soon enough”, but Fen’Falon could tell that there was an immense amount of devastation waiting for her.

After all, the snow was only half that. Ash had a much more… distinct taste.

And that’s when the cobblestones jarring her footsteps exploded, sending the two of them battered and bruising into the ground. The Breach threw crystal and fire at them, ripples of that great tear in the world lashing out with teeth.

She’d seen these creatures in the Fade as she’d dreamed of her body in those early days. They were coarse, ruthless things with no sense of tact or grace, only hunger. Her disdain for them did not, however, change the fact they were twice her height and very clearly intent on making her a snack or their host.

Finding out which of the two was more likely wasn’t particularly high on her list.

On a splintered crate lay some forgotten mage’s staff. Fen’falon scrambled for it with a vicious sort of smile the instant Cassandra put on her noble protector attitude.

Given that another shade had was bubbling its way into existence like a particularly vengeful pot of soup, she decided that staying back per Cassandra’s orders was a rather stupid thing to do. After all, it wasn’t as if telling it that she wasn’t supposed to be fighting would do any good.

Throwing lightning in fire into its face on the other hand? That did quite a bit of good.

Her heart pulled itself together long enough to sing of the natural world, energy flying from her fingertips and crashing into both the shade before her and the one that was presently arresting Cassandra’s attention. The next several moments were glorious, the electric song of mana thrumming in her veins like stardust.

Fen’falon knew the battle for survival as intimately as she’d known the footsteps of The Wolf, all but silent on the forest floor.

Fen’falon knew the rush of magic as deeply as she’d loved Miriss and their love of everything beautiful.

“Drop your weapon. Now.”

Fen’falon knew that she couldn’t sink her teeth into Cassandra’s throat like she so desperately wanted to, just as she knew she couldn’t run away like she so desperately wanted to. The latter wasn’t for lack of trying, there were simply too many people, too much rubble, and so much noise that she could hardly think straight, let alone run in such a manner that she couldn’t be followed.

Still, she knew that she could still cast magic without a staff, just as she knew that complying now would make it easier to run away later.

“Fine,” she snarled, unwilling to be meek in the face of so much opposing pride, “have it your way.”

Naturally again, Cassandra proceeded to be irritating by changing her mind now, of all times.

“You don’t need need a staff, but you should have one. I cannot protect you.”

Not that you did a great job of that to begin with, Fen’falon thought but knew better than to say. That shade had managed to give her a decent scratch down her arm.

Then Cassandra added that Fen’falon hadn’t tried to run, as if that were some great mark of character, and once again, she was faced with the overwhelming urge to shriek with laughter.

It most certainly wasn’t for lack of trying, after all. She desperately wanted to.

(In later times, Fen’falon would remember those first few moments between them and laugh and how different things were.)

More demons, more corpses, more ash and snow and angry green light. She pocketed what coins and supplies she could grab while Cassandra wasn’t looking, even going so far as to nab some elfroot while Cassandra told her of her soldiers elsewhere.

She noticed the wraith before Cassandra and had all but killed it by the time she’d finished explaining that they attack from the distance. In her experience, those who tended towards the higher ground attacked from further away. The fact that it glowed made it pretty easy to spot as well.

Then came yet more demons, yet more corpses, yet more ash and crystal and angry light, and Fen’falon began to wonder if this new reality of hers could possibly get any more horrid.

And that was when Cassandra mentioned fighting, but neglected to mention the _**giant bloody hole in the air spewing out demons**_ that some group of nameless figures waged their own desperate battle against.

She hadn’t been frightened before. She’d been clinging on to the numbness and bitter irritation that Cassandra inspired in her simply because the alternative was so, so much to deal with all at once.

Staring at the Rift, it was all she could do to dig her feet into the ground and keep running forward. Irritation or no, these were living, breathing beings that needed her help--she couldn’t just let them die, no matter how terrifying it was to have all four shades suddenly turn and lunge at her when she sent lightning arcing into them.

_In fairness,_ she thought somewhere removed from the fear, _I’d probably kill the guy electrocuting all of my friends, too._

More hands grabbed her, pulled the hand bleeding light and agony towards the Rift.

“Quickly! Before more come through!”

At this, she began to panic, because what did this nameless voice- gentle, despite his shouting- with sharp blue eyes- gods, why did everyone have blue eyes? It was unfair, really- expect her to do? She didn’t know how she’d gotten the mark on her hand, and all she’d been told was that it was apparently connected to the Rifts and-

-And was pulling at something within that arm, which in turn pulled at the Rift and-

-And the Rift sank inwards on itself and-

-And then the Rift exploded, sharp, angry green light reaching outwards and into nothingness, and-

-And then Fen’falon very carefully did not panic, even though she desperately wanted to.

“What did you do?”

“I did nothing. The credit is yours."

Mr. Sharp-eyes-and-a-soft-voice then proceeded to tell her that she held the key to everyone’s salvation, and Fen’falon reconsidered not panicking.

“Good to know! And here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

At that, Fen’falon finally did laugh, though it was a low chuckle half-choked in her throat to prevent it from spiraling into anything worse. The funny dwarf introduced himself as Varric Tethras and invited himself along on this mad expedition of theirs. She’d already been inclined towards liking him, but then he winked at Cassandra and made her scowl.

That was about the time Fen’falon figured they were going to get along just swimmingly.

Mr. Sharp-eyes-and-a-soft-voice was Elvhen like her, which she hadn’t noticed until he introduced himself as Solas and she forced herself to make eye contact in order to hear him a little better against the noise of everything else.

She liked him almost as much as she liked Varric, as he was very polite to the point of understating.

“I am pleased to see you still yet live.”

“He means ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

Now, normal circumstances would suggest that Fen’falon thank him for all but saving her life, but the spectre of death dogged at her footsteps and demanded she give into the sheer weight of all the grief still lumped in her throat. Fen'falon decided these were rather abnormal circumstances, so she indulged her curiosity instead of her growing urge to scream bloody murder.

Thankfully, it turned out in her favor: not only did Solas charm her further by subtly snarking at Cassandra, but he spoke of extensive travel in the Fade, and further understanding of the mark on her hand. Add in common sense and a comment about those in power and justice being served accordingly, and yes, Solas and Varric were very much her new favorites in this party of death. Provided they lived through this, she'd love to chat with both of them.

Not that she had long to linger on this newfound amusement before they were dashing off again. 

She’d later faintly remember the conversations about the Dalish and how she hadn’t commented on also being nearly killed for superstition when she’d been taken in, faintly remember talk of spinning stories and yet another Rift.

Roderick and his irritating... everything came next. At least Cassandra acknowledged that the giant-fuck-you-hole-in-the-sky was a bigger problem than whether or not Fen’falon had blown up hundreds of people. Which she hadn’t, by the way. She knew that much. The point being, this was the complete opposite of the right time for adhering to proper procedure, assuming there was, in fact, a procedure helpfully labeled 'In case of giant-fuck-you-magic-hole-in-the-sky, read here'.

Upon further consideration, Fen'falon figured she might be going the slightest bit mad in an attempt to cope with it all.

Up through the mineshaft, where she remembered how to blur her movements through the Fade and quickly began to do so whenever she could, if only to put her desperation towards somewhere slightly more productive, then past more corpses and into more bloody demons--“ass deep” didn’t even begin to cover it, really.

She’d drawn breath to say as such to Varric as they slid down the ladder, only for what little mirth she’d mustered to die a cold, painful death in her throat as she stepped into a field of ash, rubble, and charred corpses.

They wouldn’t let her look for Miriss and The Wolf, and she didn’t want them to know about either of them. To show weakness would be to give them something to wield against her, to force her to work with them past however long it took for them to get this bloody mark off her arm.

It was enough to walk past dozens of corpses trapped like flies in amber, ash preserving the final dying screams of hundreds of people.

It was enough to know her heart and soul lay somewhere in this molten sea.

It was enough to watch her body fight against something several times her height, stronger than her in every capacity. If she concentrated, not that she wanted to, she could smell the ash and copper and ozone, could feel the bit of lightning and claw into her skin as she soaked up pain like a sponge, relishing each blow as it drove her towards some undefined limit.

The demon fell in a burst of light, and the mark on her hand all but ripped itself open in its urgency to do what she supposed it had been created to do.

She wasn’t present to witness herself rip open the Breach and force magic into it with all the force of the desperate sobs within her.

She wasn't able to hear the shuddering boom of thunder as she did something to it.

She was unconscious for the third time before she’d hit the ground anyways, so what did it matter if she had screamed? They would think it in pain and understand that better than her heartbreak.

She welcomed the darkness this time, and hoped it would be all she saw for a long while.


End file.
